


we're setting fire to our insides (for fun)

by savingophelia (briennesbeauty)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, High School AU, Misery, This Is Sad, dark and gritty Troubled Teens, emma is basically heath ledger from ten things i hate about you, language snow would not approve of, like riverdale but without the murder??, smoking kills, that's how stupid this is, this got very depressing very quickly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2018-11-23 07:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11397798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briennesbeauty/pseuds/savingophelia
Summary: she turns to emma, and raises one perfectly coiffed dark eyebrow. “are you going to stand there all day or are you here to smoke?” and in that intoxicating voice, it sounds almost like a challenge.or, the one where the rich cheerleader and the token weird kid fall in love.or, the swan queen high school au that didn’t need to be written.like,reallydidn’t.





	1. starts

**Author's Note:**

> full disclosure now children, this is absolute trash. like pure, tropey, kidz bop edition dark and gritty troubled teens, trash. 
> 
> also, smoking is bad kids.  
> don’t do cigarettes.

It all starts with Mr Gold’s new seating plan. 

 

(Really, it all starts when Emma’s shitty new foster dad hands her the forms for a shitty new school, and she actually decides to go, because frankly she’s been kicked out of enough places for bunking and she really does not need to sit through another one of her shitty social worker’s shitty speeches about cleaning up her shitty act.)

(Really, it starts the first day she turns up, a little hungover, and walks right into the most ridiculously beautiful girl she’s ever seen, and said beautiful girl looks at her like she’s a piece of shit on the ground because really, how else are beautiful girls going to look at Emma?)

(Really, it starts when Emma finds out the beautiful girl’s name is Regina Mills, and she’s the mayor’s daughter, and she’s utterly unattainable.)

 

Emma’s been at the school for a few weeks when it happens, and Gold’s Psychology 1 class is one of the few lessons that are actually tolerable. Mostly because Mr Gold has a very rich, soothing Scottish voice, and likes to talk about mental disorders a lot, so it’s pretty easy for her to settle down on her desk at the back of the room and take a nap. 

Not so this Tuesday.

 

Emma’s running late, as usual, and when she pushes through the classroom door, she frowns when she sees the desks are all arranged differently. Her usual spot under the back window is occupied by some gross football player in a varsity jacket, staring dumbly at his textbook. 

“Um,” Emma says, awkwardly hanging in the doorway. She clears her throat. “Sorry I’m late.” 

“Miss Swan,” Gold greets, not looking up from the book he was reading from when she interrupted him. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us. As you can see, there’s been a change in seating arrangements.” He looks up and motions with his hand. “Your new seat is there, beside Miss Mills.”

 _Well_ , Emma thinks, _fuck_. 

She huffs, shifting her rucksack awkwardly on her shoulder. _Might as well get it over with_. She worms between the rows of desks, ignoring the stares from the other kids, and eventually drops down into her seat with a sigh. She slings her ratty backpack to her feet and leans back, shooting a look sideways at her new neighbour. 

“Hey,” Emma whispers. Gold’s started talking again. She leans over, closer to the other girl’s desk. “You’re pretty smart, right? You –” 

“Don’t talk to me,” Regina says, completely serious.

Emma rolls her eyes. 

It’s not like they haven’t interacted before. As previously mentioned, Emma’s first day at this school began when she collided into Regina in the hallway. It was just a brief thing – Emma swore and apologised, and Regina just shot her a deadly look before rolling her eyes and stalking off. 

Since then, they’ve shared a few classes, passed in the hallway. But Regina is pretty much the pinnacle of the ‘cool’ crowd here – she’s gorgeous, smart, rich. She’s an honour rolls student, the star of the cheerleading squad, and to top it all of, her mom’s the mayor. Yet for all that, there’s something off about her and Emma can’t quite figure out what it is. 

She leans back in her squeaky chair and mentally prepares herself. 

It’s going to be a long term. 

 

_

 

“So what’s her deal?” Emma asks, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “Now, I’m pretty good at reading people but I just... I can’t figure her out.” She exhales, watching the smoke swirl up into the dreary Maine sky. 

She’s sitting on the floor against a brick wall, trusty Bic lighter in one hand, fishing for information. It’s cold and grey, and there’s a slight dampness in the air that promises more rain to come. 

“Regina Mills?” Killian scoffs, stupid grin on his face while he rolls his joint. “She’s a stone cold bitch.” He whistles. “And what a bitch she is...”

“Ew,” Emma complains. She taps the ash off the end of her cigarette. “Don’t be gross.”

“Sorry, Swan,” Killian leans back against the brick wall. “Forget you’re a lady sometimes.”

“Thanks,” Emma mutters. 

Killian is pretty awful, but he’s also the only other person in this school who doesn’t belong to some kind of social group. Her choices in friends are pretty limited at the minute, and she learned a long time ago smoking with someone else makes you dumb and edgy. It makes people avoid you. Smoking alone just makes you sad. 

The spot they’re at is pretty good though – tucked around the side of the quad, by the grimy metal stairs to the janitor’s room. Killian tells her if you lean against the wall on the floor, the smoke gets mixed with the hot air vent above them and nobody can smell it.  
Emma thinks that’s bullshit, but it gets her a fix, and its a better place to be than math. 

“Why?” Killian looks at her, one thick eyebrow raised. His kohl-lined eyes are bleary and red-rimmed from the weed. (He’s on his own with that. Emma likes pot as much as the next idiot in a leather jacket, but even for her, weed at school is pushing it.) “You interested?”

“Please,” Emma rolls her eyes, taking another drag. “That girl is not for me.” 

Killian just laughs, but that’s probably because of the pot. 

“Why are you asking me all this anyway?” He wonders absently, taking another hit of his joint. He’s wearing an awful lot of ugly Hot Topic rings. They flash in the sun between clouds. “You’re the one who’s stuck with her all year.” 

_That’s true_ , Emma thinks. _I am_. 

And she resolves to use her new position. To observe, to study. To try and figure out why this white collar bitch is getting under her skin without a word. 

To Killian, Emma just shrugs. “I liked it better when we smoked in silence.”

 

_

 

And so Emma begins to study Regina Mills, the way a scientist would study an alien from another planet. Except she doesn’t get to rummage around her brains. 

(Emma thinks it would be a lot cooler if she did.) 

 

Every day, Emma comes into class late and mumbles an apology to Gold before swinging her battered rucksack down and dropping into her chair. 

“Hey, Regina,” Emma says, like clockwork, leaning back and scuffing her holey sneakers against the floor. 

Regina says nothing, and that’s how it begins. 

Emma looks at her, sitting bolt upright in her chair with her tan legs crossed and her dark, dark eyes on the board, and tries to fathom what the _fuck_ could be going on in that beautiful, unattainable head. 

 

Emma figures there are three main points to her knowledge of Regina, and they’re all based around consistency. 

Firstly, Regina Mills is always on time. 

Emma guesses this anyway, since she’s always there when Emma walks in ten minutes late. Regina Mills is always on time, and she sits primly at her desk with her textbook and her water bottle and her fancy-ass fountain pens all neatly laid out in front of her. She watches Gold talk intently as if she actually gives a shit, but Emma knows better. Emma can see her neat black fingernails tapping in boredom against her thigh. 

 

Secondly, Regina Mills always looks perfect. 

Emma doesn’t have to guess this one – no matter how early in the morning it is, how freezing cold or maddeningly wet it is, Regina Mills comes to school looking like she’s just walked out of a magazine. With her tight dresses and her shiny dark hair and her expensive makeup, she could just as easy be going to dinner at the White House as a classroom. 

Up close, it’s even scarier. From her vantage point at her desk, Emma can see every flawless little detail – the perfect nails, a different shade of red or black or beige every day; the perfect skin; the perfect eyebrows. There are no flaws, no cracks in this one’s mask. In a way, Emma has to envy her, but not in the way you’d think. 

 

And thirdly, Regina Mills never smiles. 

At first, Emma thought it was more that Regina Mills never smiles _at her_ , but as the weeks go by and she spends day after day in the same group of buildings, she starts to realise she never smiles at _anyone_. 

In class, she’s totally serious and focused. Unless she’s scowling at the dumbass jocks passing notes with her, Regina sits perfectly still with her face perfectly impassive, watching Gold talk and making notes in her exceptionally neat handwriting. In the halls or at her locker, Regina’s usually surrounded by her jock and cheerleader type friends, and she joins in conversation, and they’re all laughing, but Regina’s expressions are limited to raised eyebrows and rolled eyes. 

Even at the dumbass pep rally the other week, when Killian and Emma sat on the back bleacher passing a flask back and forth, she couldn’t help notice that while all the other girls were smiling like crazy throughout the set, Regina was working more of a controlled, if super-hot expression. (She noticed some other things as well, but come on. She’s only human.) 

And Emma thinks it’s funny that a girl who always looks that miserable is on a team for spreading cheer. 

_

“I miss the smoking wall,” Killian complains, rolling a joint on the blue plastic bleacher in front of him. “Stinks of Ivy League up here.” 

“I know,” Emma agrees, leaning back against the bleacher behind her and taking a drag of her own cigarette. “Gross, isn’t it?” 

She settles back against the plastic, staring out across the football field and breathing in the hazy smoke. The football guys aren’t practising tonight but they’ve gathered on the field to watch the cheerleaders, nudging each other and laughing. _Trust fund assdicks_ , Emma thinks, until her eyes catch on the cheerleaders rehearsing the other side. 

She taps her cigarette off for something to do, pretending not to watch the distant figure of Regina Mills stretching out before practise. Even at this distance, the brunette is pretty distracting, especially in her little shorts and cheer team shirt, stretching her shapely olive legs. Even at this distance, Emma can see the familiar bored scowl on her face. 

“View’s not bad, though,” Killian puts in, and Emma twists around sharply to glare at him. 

Maybe it’s a bit hypocritical, since she was just doing the exact same thing, but she doesn’t like the idea of Killian drooling over those girls. 

(Over _that_ girl.) 

 

_

 

It’s a rainy Thursday, and Emma’s running late.

Like, later than usual. Like, she’s missed her first two and a half classes and god help her, if the school calls home and gets drunken shouting again before she can get to the phone she’s going to kill someone.

She usually walks to school, but today she _ran_ , which means she’s covered in sweat and red-faced, and probably doesn’t smell that great. Thanks to the rain, she’s also soaked – beneath her ratty leather jacket her plaid shirt is wet through and itchy as hell, her jeans (already sporting several little holes that are not intentionally a fashion statement) are heavy and uncomfortable, and knockoff Vans were definitely not made for ankle-deep puddles. 

She pushes through the doors with a heavy sigh. Her backpack is wet through – she can feel it sticking to her back. Most likely, her books are ruined. Emma pushes a wet strand of hair off her face, trudging down the corridor and trying to ignore the weird looks she’s getting. _Trying_. 

Eventually she reaches her locker, and fumbles with the dial with numb fingers for a few seconds before eventually getting in. She strips off her jacket and throws it inside. Hopefully it’ll dry out by the end of the day. 

With a frown, she unzips her backpack and tries to salvage anything not ruined. What that turns out to be is forty two cents, a Klondike bar, her lighter, a hairband, her house keys, and a pen. She dumps the sodden mass of blurry doodles that used to be her notebook. That done, she glances at the clock on the wall. _Twelve fifty. Damn_. 

She has to be in class in ten minutes but... Fuck it, she’s had a bad day and she really needs a cigarette. Hers have been fucking _destroyed_ by the rain, but maybe... Emma shuts her locker and twists the dial, heading for the smoking wall. Hopefully Killian will be there and she can borrow a pack off him. 

“Nice outfit, dyke!” Someone yells as she turns down the corridor. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Emma calls back, shaking out her wet hair. Behind her, she can hear the guy’s friends laughing at him. _Assdicks_. 

She hurries the last bit of the way, pushing open the fire escape door and slipping out to the smoking wall. She’ll be safe from the rain there anyway, as long as she smokes standing, since there’s a little overhang from the roof that keeps it dry. 

But when she opens the door and slips out to the smoking wall, it’s not Killian she sees there, cigarette end glowing red in the grey mist. 

It’s Regina Mills. 

“Uh,” Emma says, without thinking. 

Regina turns around, dark eyes wide at the sudden intruder. She takes Emma in for a second, pretty eyes going from Emma’s ropy wet hair to her soaked plaid shirt to the holes in her canvas shoes and simply takes another slow drag of her cigarette. 

After a long time, the brunette exhales, and somehow, she manages to make this disgusting gross-ass habit they both have look cool. 

She turns to Emma, and raises one perfectly coiffed dark eyebrow. “Are you going to stand there all day or are you here to smoke?” And in that intoxicating voice, it sounds almost like a challenge. 

“I was here to smoke, but I’m all out and my friend isn’t here so...” Emma trails off. She feels a little weird calling Killian her friend, especially with Regina Mills staring at her, beautiful face almost completely blank. 

Wordlessly, Regina holds out her cigarette pack. They’re the fancy name-brand ones Emma can never afford. Warily, Emma takes one. 

“Thanks,” She mutters, stepping fully out into the brisk cold air and leaning back against the wall. She takes the lighter from her pocket and lights up, and for a moment they both just stand there beside each other, smoking. 

After a few minutes, Emma breathes out and flicks the ash off. “I didn’t know you smoked.” She says, stupidly, for lack of anything else to say. 

“I don’t,” Regina replies. She’s leaning against the brick wall, too-big men’s jacket bundled over her tight black dress, dark, dark eyes staring intently out at the rain while she smokes. “But some days just call for it.” 

“Yeah,” Emma says, because as stupid as that statement is, she sort of gets it. She takes another drag, thinking about the argument this morning and the yelling on the phone and the way the wet fraying holes in her jeans stick to her cold skin. “You could say that again.”

A very nearly amused noise comes from Regina’s throat, and she turns her head to survey Emma’s wet clothes and hair again. “You look terrible.” 

“Thanks,” Emma mutters. Everything is grey – grey skies, grey concrete, grey rain – but Regina’s hair is black and her lips are pink and her skin is tanned and the ends of their cigarettes burn red, red, red in the rain. “I had to walk here, so...”

“Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?” Regina asks, but she’s gone back to staring at the rain like she’s trying to figure something out, and Emma doesn’t think she really cares. 

Emma shrugs. “Don’t have one.”

“Or a raincoat?” Regina says dully. 

“Nope,” Emma breathes out slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the rain. For a moment, all is still, and the only noise is the rain rushing past and dripping in the gutter above them. Then something twists defensively in Emma’s stomach and she turns to stare at Regina. “But I mean, that’s hardly a raincoat either.” There’s no reply. “What? Didn’t go with your whole _young politician-supermodel_ vibe?” 

Regina rolls her eyes. “Stop talking.”

Emma rolls _her_ eyes, and takes a long, slow drag. Maybe that wasn’t fair. After all, Regina had her own car already. She _could_ wear short skirts and tights every day if she wanted, and you know what? Go her. It probably never occurred to her that some people had to ask for the money if they wanted to buy something as simple as an umbrella, less so that some people would say no. 

“Stop doing that,” Regina says tightly, still not looking at her.

“What?” Emma asks. Her cigarette’s nearly burned away now, and her class started two minutes ago, and she’s freezing cold and soaking wet and she sort of hates this girl next to her with all that she is, but for some reason, she really doesn’t want this – whatever this is – to stop.

“Staring at me.” Regina clarifies, and she shifts slightly in her fancy shoes. “You do it all the time in Psychology and it’s infuriating.” She curls her lip slightly. “You’re doing it again now.” 

“Sorry,” Emma shrugs. “You just confuse me sometimes, you know?” 

Regina stares at her, not understanding. “ _I_ confuse _you_?” 

“Yeah,” Emma says. She doesn’t elaborate. 

“Okay,” Regina stubs her cigarette out on a nearby trash can. Before she leaves, she takes off the big jacket and folds it small over her now bare arm, shivering slightly. Emma doesn’t question it. 

“See you round,” Regina says flatly, before she walks back up into the school. 

Emma watches the door swing shut behind her, and finishes her cigarette before finally getting to class. 

 

_

 

The next time it happens, the roles are reversed. 

It’s raining again, this time the more low-key, steady drizzle that frequents coastal Maine pretty much constantly. Emma is sheltering under the overhang at the smoking wall, running down her shitty phone battery playing Tetris and working through a pack of Marlboro Lights. Her last class finished over an hour ago, but she can’t be bothered to go home. Shitty Foster Dad has Shitty Stripper Girlfriend over, and she can’t deal with that shit just yet. 

She huddles back against the bricks, leather jacket pulled tight around herself, fingers turning numb on her lighter. There’s a slight breeze with the rain, and it blows her hair around like mad. 

Emma can’t say how long she’s been there when Regina Mills walk past, but she can’t help the way something tugs violently in her chest at the sight of her. 

The brunette is wrapped in a stylish black coat this time – no oversized men’s jacket in sight – but underneath Emma’s pretty sure she’s still in just a dress and tights. She must be freezing. She has her head down against the rain, and her dark hair is blowing all around. 

“Hey,” Emma calls, uselessly.

Regina tosses her hair off her face and stalks over to her, hurrying the last few steps to the shelter of the smoking wall. Instead of going beside Emma like before, she stands in front of her for a second, staring. Emma can’t help the way her heart beats faster, because hell if those dark eyes can’t see right into her skull. 

After a second, Regina speaks. “You owe me a cigarette.”

Emma flips her packet open, holding it out to the brunette. 

Regina looks scathingly at it for a second before taking a cigarette, and then holding it out to Emma. “Light me up,” She says flatly, and Emma does, lighter clicking. For a second, the tiny flame dances against the grey. 

Once again, they settle into silence, leaning against the wall in the rain. 

“Bad day, huh?” Emma asks, turning to look at her. 

Regina doesn’t reply, smoking. 

“It’s stuff like this that makes you so hard to figure out, you know,” Emma sighs, decorum washed away by the rain. “One minute you’re all bitchy and gossipy with your cheerleader friends and the next your smoking bad cigarettes in the rain with some loser.”

“You’re not some loser,” Regina says, a hint of irritation in her voice. “And they are not my friends.” 

“What happened?” Emma asks, vaguely interested. She blows a stream of smoke slowly into the rain. 

“Nothing happened,” Regina says slowly, harshly. “Nothing ever happens.” Her cigarette is caught between her fingers. Somehow, she looks elegant and imposing, even with damp hair. She sounds like an annoyed teacher with a particularly slow student. “Those people are idiots. They just happen to be idiots I spend time with.”

“Right,” Emma says, flicking off the ash. “Unless you’re smoking with me.”

“You’re an idiot, too.” Regina tells her sharply. “You’re just different.” 

“Thanks,” Emma says. “I think.” 

For a long while, they stand there, smoking in silence. 

It’s not _nice_ , exactly. She’s standing in the rain ruining her lungs with a mean, unattainable girl she’s not even sure she likes. Emma doesn’t do _nice._ But there’s something about it, something hard and honest that lives in the space between familiar and understanding.

“What’s your story, then?” Regina demands suddenly. Her voice is hard and she doesn’t sound like she cares, but still. “You’ve mentioned more than once that you can’t _figure me out_. What about you?” 

Emma stares at her. “Didn’t know you cared,” She jokes, sort of. 

Regina doesn’t look at her. Her brown eyes are focused so intently on the rain, Emma’s sure there’s something else she’s seeing. When she speaks, her voice is full of ghosts. “Just talk,” She says, hoarse, small. 

For once, Emma understands. 

“There’s not much to tell,” Emma shrugs. She makes herself look away from Regina, watching the drizzle. “My parents dumped me on the side of the road when I was born. I was in the paper. I’ve been around the state a bit, different homes, different places. I got kicked out of the last place for stealing. Now I’m here.” 

If this sad little biography has affected Regina in any way, it doesn’t show. 

“What about Killian Jones?” Regina asks, and there’s something in the tightness of her voice that makes Emma wonder. 

“What about him?” Emma makes a face. “Dude’s an ass. But he’s someone. I don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t exactly have _friends_ either.” She glances at the ground, scuffs a sneaker along the concrete. “Smoking alone’s pretty depressing.” 

“You’re not smoking alone.” Regina says. 

She turns to Emma. Her dark hair is damp and curling slightly around her shoulders. Her mascara is a little messy around her fierce dark eyes. She’s looks right at Emma, and Emma looks right at her, and they might not be friends, and this might be their second conversation, but there’s something in that look, some sense of togetherness that transcends sense. 

Emma exhales, unable to take her eyes off the other girl. “I guess not.” 

“I don’t want to go home,” Regina admits quietly, far off look in her eyes as she takes one last drag on the cigarette. 

“I know,” Emma manages, because somehow, she does. Maybe she always has. Maybe that’s what all this figuring out has been about. “Me neither.” 

Regina looks at her for a long moment, with a look on her face that Emma’s never seen before. 

Then she stubs out her cigarette. 

“I’ll see you round,” She says, and Emma finds herself once again watching Regina Mills walk into the rain and wondering what just happened. 

\- 

And so it becomes a habit. 

They don’t speak in the hallways: they don’t speak in class. Emma sits with Killian at lunch, picking at his burrito while he trips, because he always has the cash to buy big lunches he never eats. Regina sits with the popular crowd and keeps her face perfectly impassive. They’re not friends; they never were. 

But every few days, they will inexplicably cross paths at the smoking wall. 

Sometimes Regina smokes and sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes they both stand there in the cold and say nothing at all. And sometimes Emma makes jokes that aren’t funny and sometimes they talk about nothing and lots of things are said. 

Always, there is understanding. Begrudging, honest, understanding. 

Before they even realise it themselves, tentative friendship starts pushing through these momentary cracks in their masks. They just don’t recognise it. It is an unfamiliar feeling. 

___

“What’s going on with you and Regina Mills?” Killian asks her one day, sitting at their usual table at the back of the crowded cafeteria. 

“Nothing,” Emma says, breaking off a piece of Klondike bar. “Nothing’s going on.” 

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Killian raises his eyebrows. “I keep catching you looking at each other.” 

“So?” Emma shrugs. “She’s probably just looking at my outfit in disgust, or something,” 

She doesn’t know why, but she can’t tell Killian about her sessions at the smoking wall with her, in the same way she’s sure Regina can’t tell the people she hangs out with about Emma. It’s not just hers to tell. It belongs to the two of them, and only the two of them would understand, she’s sure. 

“Just be careful, Swan,” Killian cautions her, and it would mean a lot more coming from a boy who wasn’t wearing a trashy black choker. “Regina Mills isn’t... easy.” 

Emma doesn’t know what that means, and she doesn’t want to. 

Killian doesn’t know anything. 

-

Miraculously, the rain stops for the first football game of the year. 

Usually, this is not the sort of thing Emma would be interested in, but it’s a nice evening and better than sitting up in her room listening to Shitty Foster Dad and Shitty Stripper Girlfriend fucking in the next room and the little kids shrieking downstairs. Instead, she sits on one of the back bleachers next to Killian, waiting for the thing to start. At best, she’ll get to see those jerks Regina hangs out with getting knocked around. 

There’s a pretty good turnout. All around her are families and friends who have come to support their family or their friends, wrapped up in stripy scarfs and grinning and chattering to each other. If Emma ignores Killian next to her, she can almost pretend she’s part of it, just for a second. Overhead, the sky is soft and the clouds are turning orange. 

Before the game starts, the principal stands on the field and gives a speech Emma can’t really hear with all the happy families in her way. 

The game starts, and the crowds cheer. 

Emma sits and tugs her leather jacket tighter around herself as the wind toys with her hair under her beanie. She watches while those jerks Regina hangs out with get knocked around and run into other jerks. Her hands turn red and cold. 

She remembers vaguely playing football when she was little, running around a big field with a laughing foster mom who said she could call her Ingrid, kicking and shouting. 

She puts the memory aside. 

At half-time, Killian buys a tub of popcorn and she eats half of it, and the cheerleaders come and do their routine. The other school’s team are probably better, but Emma doesn’t care. Emma can’t take her eyes off Regina – she’s gorgeous and she’s dynamic and there’s more energy and strength in her than Emma thought. All the cheerleaders smile manically while they move, except one. She wonders if anyone else notices. Around her, people are cheering and whooping. 

The second half is more throwing and catching and shoving and whistles blowing, and Emma’s eyes still keep darting back to the hard-eyed girl on the side lines dressed like all the others. 

The other school wins. 

The players shake hands. The crowds file out of the bleachers and into the car park in clusters, gravitating towards the person they were here for. Killian and Emma drift down to the pitch with them, and Killian says goodbye and goes home to do more pot or whatever it is he does. A few meters away, most of the cheerleaders are grouped together, sweaty and laughing, their families around them.  
Emma turns away from the crowds, her fingers itching for a cigarette. 

There are too many happy families, too many mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters with wholesome smiles and good memories. 

Somehow, her feet carry her behind the back of the pitch, under the bleachers. Emma tugs her jacket tighter around herself and tries to ignore the noises of the crowd, the families, the casual, everyday love that spills off them in waves. Everything feels fake, and it doesn’t, and that’s what makes her want to hit something. She fishes out a cigarette, fumbles for her lighter. 

Above, the sun is going down. The sky blazes red and gold and orange, and Regina Mills is walking towards her. 

Emma stares, watching her hurry under the shadows of the bleachers, red cheer skirt fluttering in the breeze. She looks pissed about something, but then, she always does. That’s what Emma likes about her. 

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Regina states, like it’s the end of a conversation. 

Emma just shrugs, cupping her hand around her cigarette as she lights up. 

Somehow, this doesn’t feel the same as shared misery in the rain at the smoking wall. This isn’t what they do, especially not here, with Regina looking like that. 

The cheerleading uniform is all red and black. They’re good colours on Regina, making her olive skin look warm and her eyes look bright, and that skirt is doing all kinds of things to Emma’s brain, but somehow it makes Regina look wrong as well. It’s juvenile, it’s small-town, it’s nice. All the words that do not apply to Regina Mills. 

Emma can still hear the families, and it makes her stomach churn and her guards snap up. She looks Regina up and down. “Shouldn’t you be with your family right now?” 

Regina’s eyes find hers. “They’re not here.” She says, as if she’s telling Emma something else, something bigger. “They don’t come.” 

Emma just looks at her. 

After a second, Regina’s eyes drop from hers. 

“You shouldn’t smoke so much,” Regina tells her, and she reaches up and snatches the cigarette from Emma’s mouth. Before Emma can respond, she raises it to her own lips and takes a long drag. 

Emma’s chest clenches at the strange intimacy of it, and at the look in Regina’s eyes as she breathes out the smoke. 

She doesn’t look like a teenage girl making bad choices. She looks like complicated character from a pretentious book about something important. She looks like a woman. She looks beautiful. The black shadows of the bleachers and the fiery light of sunset shift over her olive skin like art, the losing sun finding gold in her dark hair and darker eyes. 

Without warning, Regina sits down gracefully on the grass, Emma’s cigarette caught elegantly between her fingers. She looks at it instead of Emma. “Sit with me.” 

“Why?” Emma asks as she clambers to the floor. 

“Because everything’s shit.” Regina enunciates. It’s the first time Emma’s heard her swear, but the conviction in her voice and the honesty in her hard dark eyes make it sound like poetry, make Emma wholeheartedly disagree for the first time in her life. 

“Not everything,” Emma says quietly, running her fingers absently through the cold dewy grass beside her. 

Regina turns to her, and all of a sudden her dark eyes aren’t hard anymore. They’re soft. So very soft. Emma wonders why she didn’t see that before. Regina teases her hand through the damp grass until it finds Emma’s. When she slides their fingers together, her skin is warm. 

They lay back, passing the cigarette back and forth with their free hands until the sounds of picture-perfect families and nearby happiness fade away, and all they’re left with is the sound of their own breathing. 

_In and out, in and out, in and out._


	2. somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i rewrote this chapter so many times i can’t even tell you, but i hope it’s ended up ok, and if it hasn't, the next few will definitely make up for it.
> 
> i'm also going to warn everybody now that this story has taken on a life of its own, and is probably going to get longer and sadder than first anticipated. although it's never overtly dealt with, i'm giving out a tw now for implied abuse by a parent. 
> 
> today’s question is how the hell does this school not realise all their students are constantly smoking on the premises?? who knows. not me.

It’s been a week since the football game, and it’s not raining, but still Emma finds herself leaning against the smoking wall waiting for Regina. 

There’s been a shift in their relationship since the game. Emma can’t quite find the right words to explain it, but it’s like they’re less defensive against each other and more defensive against the rest of the world. They still don’t say much, but they don’t need to.   
Emma leans against the wall, clicking her lighter on and off and watching the little flame dance against the grey sky and grey walls around her. She finished class a while ago, but Regina has some fancy honour roll thing and Emma doesn’t mind waiting. It gives her time to breathe. Ironically.

By the time she spots Regina headed towards her across the quad, the sky overheard has darkened to the colour of a bad bruise and despite everything, her heart lifts, just slightly. 

“Hey,” Emma calls.

“Hey.” Regina says briskly, wrapping her arms tight around herself and hurrying the rest of the way over. There is a cold wind picking up. It sends trash skittering over the asphalt, and it tosses Regina’s dark hair around her face. 

Emma takes her in for a second, eyes going from the tight red lips to the furrow between her dark eyebrows, to the folded arms and rigid posture. The distant look in her wide brown eyes. Emma takes the cigarette from her mouth, tapping it awkwardly between her fingers. “You okay?” 

Regina glances behind her distractedly, in the direction of the parking lot. 

“I can’t stay and smoke tonight.” She says at last, as if that’s meant to answer her question. 

“Oh?” Emma asks. She can’t deny the sinking feeling in her gut. 

A first pattering of rain begins to fall. She can hear it tapping against the gutter overhead. For a moment, Regina doesn’t look at her. And then her eyes dart sharply up to meet Emma’s, wide and dark and uncertain. 

“My mother’s waiting in the car.” Regina tells her. Those eyes never leave hers. There’s something insistent in them, something telling and purposeful that makes Emma’s heart jump for a moment. 

After a long time, Regina reaches into her expensive bag and produces a small black umbrella. 

Her brown eyes burn fiercely in the light rain and she holds it out like a peace offering. The rain is starting to bead in her dark hair. 

“This is for you.” She says. 

She’s gone before Emma can say thank you. 

_

 

Killian and Emma start sitting on a wall by the football pitch at lunch. It gives them a good view of all the future Ivy League assholes, and Emma finds a new person to hate.

His name is Robin Locksley, he’s a line-backer, and he always has his arm around Regina’s shoulders when they walk to the bleachers. Sometimes the group pass close enough for Emma to hear him calling her _darling_ in his British accent and see Regina still not smiling, not even coming close. In a horrible way, that makes her feel good. 

Today the rain has finally let up, and the small black umbrella that still smells vaguely of high-end perfume sits in the bottom of the backpack at Emma's feet. She and Killian are perched next to each other, legs dangling down the grotty red bricks. 

Emma stares over at the bleachers, where Regina and Robin and the rest of that crowd are sitting together, talking and laughing about something. She can’t quite make out Regina’s face at this distance. She hasn’t talked to her since the day she gave her the umbrella, and she’s sort of... _worried_. 

Emma could almost laugh at that. _She_ is worried about this girl, this girl who has a Mercedes and a Prada bag and a half-British line backer with his arm around her on the bleachers. 

“I hate that guy,” Emma mutters, for the fifth time today, turning away from the field.

“So you’ve said,” Killian acknowledges. He’s pissy with her at the minute, and she’s not sure why. Maybe all that black hair dye has finally soaked into his brain.

“Come on,” Emma rolls her eyes. “You hate people who have their own trust funds, too.”

“True,” Killian says, cupping his black-nailed hands around his cigarette as he lights up. “But come on, love. That’s not why you don’t like him.” 

“Okay, you need to stop with this whole _I know better than you vibe_ ,” Emma says, mildly annoyed. She shoots a sideways glance at him as he lifts his cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply. “It’s pretty rich coming from the guy who’s smoking right next to the football pitch.”

Killian just shrugs, exhaling a long trail of smoke. He, apparently, doesn't have enough working brain cells left to come up with a snappy comeback. 

Part of Emma wants to hop down off the wall and pick up her backpack and go spend lunch somewhere people don’t bring pot to school or call her _love_. But frankly, she’s hungry, and she knows there’s a sandwich in his bag somewhere. 

_

 

Eventually, Friday rolls around and with it, Emma’s next Psychology class. 

She still hasn’t really seen Regina since the umbrella incident, and her stomach thrums with anticipation as she makes her way through the corridors towards the classroom, backpack slung over one shoulder, late, as usual.

“Sorry,” Emma mumbles, as she pushes the door and slips awkwardly into the classrooms. It’s customary now. Gold barely notices, already deep in a lecture about some kind of disorder. Like most of the teachers here, she's pretty sure he's already given up on her.

Regina glances up for a brief second as she slings her bag to her feet and slumps down into the seat beside her. Emma makes herself take off her beanie and take out her broken pen and scrappy note paper and tries to focus on Gold’s neat writing on the board. She does try. It’s just hard, when everything she thought she knew about Regina is sort of breaking up, and they haven’t smoked together in days and -

Emma chews her lip, trying not to sigh. She shoots a glance at Regina out of the corner of her eye. 

Regina is sitting bolt upright at her desk, as usual, dark eyes dull and focused on the teacher. She’s wearing a long sleeved shirt and a skirt today, and there’s something very forced about the way her legs are crossed at the ankles. Her whole body looks too tight, too tense. Her red nails tap her fancy fountain pen just slightly against her notebook. 

A furrow appears between Emma’s browns. 

She leans over a little, tilting her head to try and see. There’s something under Regina’s sleeve. She can see it every time she taps her pen and it rides a little up her tan wrist. It’s small and purple and Emma recognises it all too well. 

“Eyes on the board, please, Miss Swan.” Gold says, and all the kids snigger. 

Regina tugs her sleeve firmly over the bruise, and Emma’s cheeks flush red. 

_

 

The whole shitty weekend goes by before Emma gets to see Regina again. 

In fact, the whole shitty Monday goes by too – Emma trudges through a grey morning and a grey meeting at the principals office about lateness and a grey dull lunch with a half-stoned Killian before finally her classes end and she can escape to the smoking wall. She pushes through the fire exit door by the janitor’s closet and out into the bracing air. It’s dry, but it smells like there’s rain to come later. Emma sighs, relaxing against the wall and lighting up. 

It’s been a bad weekend, even by her standards. (She stayed out too long waiting for Shitty Stripper Girlfriend to leave, and ended up having to climb back in through her bedroom window. She's pretty sure she strained her wrist, and couple of the little kids were already holing up in there.) 

Frankly, right here, right now, smoking a bad cigarette round the back of a high school, is the most relaxed she’s been for days.

She’s been there about half an hour when - 

“Do you mind if I join you?” 

Emma looks up sharply at the soft-voiced question, stomach jolting. Regina Mills is staring at her with wary eyes and a breeze in her hair. 

“No,” She shrugs. “Go ahead.” 

“Okay,” Regina says, and that’s all. She takes her own expensive cigarettes from her own bag and lights one with her own lighter. She leans against the wall beside her, and for a long time, that’s all that happens. 

Emma glances over at her. Once again, Regina is staring straight ahead as she smokes, breeze stirring her dark hair around her shoulders. It’s not raining but it’s not warm, either. She must be freezing, Emma thinks. The brunette has clearly come straight from cheer practise – not that Emma’s complaining. Somehow, Regina makes the standard little black running shorts and red varsity t-shirt and socks look good. More than good. (Sometimes Emma wonders if Regina notices her lingering looks. Sometimes she wonders about the way Regina looks at her, too. Sometimes.) 

She’s still wearing her black running shoes. Emma didn’t realise just how short she was out of heels. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” Regina says suddenly. 

Emma raises an eyebrow and takes a drag. “Go where? The library?”

“No.” Regina snaps, cigarette lingering by her red lips. _Who wears red lipstick to cheer practise?_ “I have my car. We could get a coffee.”

“Okay,” Emma says, warily. She’s nearly finished her cigarette. “Why though?” 

“Because.” Regina says firmly. 

There is no room for argument. Especially not when Emma’s mind still rings from _I don’t want to go home_ , from _they’re not here, they don’t come_ , from little bruises under long sleeves. Especially not when, for all her off-brand cigarettes and the holes in her jeans and her bad attitude, Emma doesn’t want to go home now either. 

Regina stubs her cigarette out on the trash can beside her and slings her bag – which is black and leather and looks like it costs more than everything Emma’s worn, ever – over her arm. 

“Come on,” She says, and before Emma can even think about what’s happening she’s following Regina Mills across the school parking lot towards her infamous black Benz. 

Emma can’t help but stare a little as Regina finds her keys and opens the car door like it’s perfectly normal, when Emma literally cannot fathom an eighteen year old girl owning a car like this. (Owning a car at all.) (Owning anything.) 

“Well?” Regina raises one perfect dark eyebrow at her. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Emma breaks from her trance, opening the passenger side door and sitting down. The seats are comfier than her bed, but that’s not really an impressive feat. 

Regina gets into the drivers seat, slots the keys in, and pulls out of the car park. There’s a CD player and a radio on the dashboard but no music plays. Emma doesn’t ask. For a while, they sit in silence as Regina drives out the school gates and down unfamiliar roads. 

Emma shifts in her seat, feeling incredibly out of place in her fraying plaid shirt and her scuffed boots with the Duct-taped soles. She swallows, watching Regina’s hands and her red nails on the steering wheel and wondering how the hell she got here. 

“We’re here,” Regina announces dully after about ten minutes, pulling into parking spot on the side of the road. 

_Here_ turns out to be a quaint little roadside diner called Granny’s, which looks to be mostly frequented by sweet old ladies. Emma frowns a little, wondering how Regina knows this place. Somehow, it doesn't fit the honour-roll-cheer-squad-smoker-bitch vibe she puts out.

Inside, Regina takes a seat in a booth at the back and Emma slides in opposite her, watching the way she moves, the way even now her pretty face is still hard and defensive, still giving nothing away. But still. Emma looks around at the ageing patrons reading newspapers with their coffees, the middle-aged couples and their hushed conversations, and wonders once again Regina can constantly be challenging everything she thinks about her. 

“I need a coffee.” Regina says, at last breaking the silence. “Do you want to eat anything?”

“I don’t have any money,” Emma tells her. 

“I have money,” Regina says, the word _idiot_ hanging unsaid, but very definitely, in the air between them. 

Emma can’t help the rush of heat to her face. “Oh, no, Regina, you don’t have to –”

“What do you want?” Regina repeats, levelling her with those dark, dark eyes.

For a second, Emma falters. She sighs. She gives in. “Fine. Give me the menu.” 

Regina hands it to her, a challenge, eyes never leaving hers. 

Emma scans the menu, eyes lingering on the prices. The cheapest thing is a salad. She knows she should get that to make it easier for Regina, but at the same time, this is probably her only chance to eat something other than leftover takeout and toast for the next few weeks, and – 

“Get what you want,” Regina tells her flatly, as if she can read her mind. “Money’s not an issue.”

“Um,” Emma says, because of course it’s not. She’s sitting opposite a teenage girl who drives a Mercedes. “Thanks.” 

So when the waitress comes over, Emma orders a grilled cheese and a root beer and when the waitress asks if she wants onions rings with that, Emma hesitates but ends up saying yes at the stony look on Regina’s face. Regina, for her part, gets the cheap salad. 

When the food comes, Emma nearly has a heart attack at the smell. The grilled cheese is hefty and greasy and stuffed with onions and tomatoes and hot gooey cheese and it smells like heaven. She picks it up with two hands and attacks it. 

“Oh my god,” Emma groans, mouth half full of bread and cheese. “That’s so good. Oh my god.”

Regina’s brown eyes dart up to meet hers. She raises an eyebrow. “Hungry?” 

Emma nods, swallowing. “Starving. Forgot how good hot food was.” 

Regina stares at her strangely, and then goes back to picking boredly at her salad. She cuts it up into very small pieces without actually eating anything. “Seriously?” She says, after a while, and her voice, for once, is not mean.

Emma shrugs, dipping an onion ring generously in ketchup. “Well, we don’t actually have a cooker at the minute and my foster dad only ever gets takeout when his girlfriend’s round.” 

“Oh,” Regina says. There’s something different in her eyes when she asks, tentatively, “Will he be angry if you’re home late?” 

(Much, much different.)

Emma shakes her head. “He won’t have noticed I’m gone. Trust me.” 

“Oh,” Regina says again. She turns her eyes back to her salad, eating small bites carefully so she doesn’t smudge her lipstick. 

“He’s a piece of shit, but he keeps fostering kids because they give him cash for it.” Emma takes off the top piece of bread, stuffing the grilled sandwich with onion rings. She’s not sure why she’s saying all this, why she suddenly doesn’t care. “There’s so many by now one less won’t make a difference. Especially not if he's had a drink.” 

Emma pauses a long time, heaviness in her stomach as she thinks about the question. 

“What about you?” She finally braves saying, heart thrumming nervously. “Will your... family... Be angry with you?” 

Regina breathes in sharply and looks down at her salad. “My mother’s always angry with me.” Her voice is very, very soft. “It doesn’t matter what I do.”

Emma stares at her, this girl who has everything in the world but so often echoes the expressions of sad kids from bad homes from Emma’s memories. 

What a picture they must make, she thinks, her with her ripped jeans and growling stomach, Regina with her cheer shirt and red lipstick and bruised wrist, across a table at an old ladies’ diner.

“I can drive you home if you want,” Regina offers, as they leave the diner later. It is nearly dark outside now, and the idea of _home_ and all it entails is disappointing. 

“Don’t,” Emma hears herself say. “Drive me... Somewhere.”

Regina’s dark eyes catch hers briefly over the top of the car as they climb inside, and Emma know she understands. 

They sit side by side in the car as Regina pulls out of the diner lot and heads downtown. As the road opens up to speeding city lights, rain starts to spatter against the windscreen and blur the lights like an old painting. 

“I use to drive around here all the time,” Regina says quietly, looking out at the road. Her face is soft, almost unguarded. “Sometimes I think about driving away and leaving it all behind. Sometimes I think about going and not coming back.” 

Emma stares at her. 

For a fleeting second, Emma doesn’t see a façade or a mystery to be unravelled. She sees a girl. She sees a girl willing to take a near-stranger to dinner and pay for them and drive them around half the night just to put off going home a little while longer. For a second, she sees herself, and she looks away quickly.

“I ran away once.” Emma admits, fingers tracing patterns on the misty car window as the lights speed by. “Actually got pretty far, too. I was on the street for a while before the police found me and brought me back.”

“That’s bullshit,” Regina says, and Emma finds herself agreeing. 

“But it’s okay,” Emma shrugs. “In a couple of months I age out of the system and I guess I can do whatever I want.”

“That sounds nice,” Regina murmurs, so quietly Emma almost doesn’t hear. 

It's a lie, of course, and they both know it. Emma doesn't have enough money to do whatever she wants, even if she knew what that was. Truthfully, she'll probably end up waitressing or cleaning for a while after she graduates, before she gets enough cash to move somewhere far, far away. But she doesn't want to get into that now. Not when the air is just turning soft. 

Regina turns down a smaller street, where the rushing lights aren’t so bright. She drives down roads Emma doesn’t recognise, until eventually she realises they’re on the edge of town, heading up the hill that overlooks the city. Regina pulls up the hill and through a densely-wooded lane until the street opens out onto a parking lot, right at the top of the hill.

Emma can’t help but smile a little as Regina pulls into one of the spaces, and the view of the city unfolds before them. It’s a network of lights. Orange lights and stacked lights of tower blocks and offices and houses and snaking lights of cars speeding down the freeway below, and the quieter lights of the stars and the moon overhead, and the rain turns them all misty and soft. 

“Wow,” Emma says, taking it in. “It’s, um... really pretty up here.”

“Yes,” Regina agrees in a careful, measured voice. “Everything’s pretty if you get far enough away.” She pauses. “You can smoke in here as long as the windows are open.”

“Oh,” Emma says, glancing over at the brunette in the drivers seat. She’s already fumbling in the car door slot for a pack of cigarettes. “Okay.” 

Honestly, Emma doesn’t really feel like smoking right now. Her stomach is full of warm food and her head is full of pretty lights, and there’s a part of her, a still small part of her that wonders if they could talk without the cigarettes. But Regina’s opening the pack and winding down the windows to let in the smell of the night and the sound of the rain and she doesn’t want her to have to smoke alone. 

So she takes what’s offered. 

She lights up and leans against the window frame to smoke, thinking about how quickly Regina Mills’ mood can swing from soft and introspective to sullen and bitchy, and how she smokes like she’s trying to get somewhere. She thinks of what Killian said, about Regina not being easy. 

“I hate it when you do that.” Regina mutters, not meeting her eyes as she smokes. 

“Do what?” Emma asks. 

“You’re staring at me again.” Regina clarifies. Her voice is sharp and pointed, slow and hard. “I told you to stop it.”

“Sorry,” Emma apologises half-heartedly; she’s not. “I guess I’m still trying to work you out. And you know, you’re pretty distracting.” She takes a long drag on her cigarette. “You’re probably, like, one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever –”

“Stop.” Regina says sharply. 

Emma releases a breath of smoke and rolls her eyes. “What?” 

“Stop.” Regina repeats. And then, quieter, leaning her head against the side of the window to smoke, “Don’t tell me that.”

“Why?” Emma asks softly, not expecting a real answer. 

“Because.” Regina sighs. “You’re an idiot. But you’re different.” For a long time, they are both silent, smoking out the windows, listening to the rain patter against the windshield. 

After a while, Regina bites down slightly on her lip, and it makes Emma’s chest and stomach ache softly. “Anyway, I’m not beautiful.” Regina says. “Not up close. It’s like I said. Nothing’s beautiful up close.”

“Yeah,” Emma says, remembering. Remembering a beautiful foster mother on a beautiful day and fairground lights against a pink sunset. Remembering sirens and bathtubs running. “I guess that’s true.”

When Emma turns to look at Regina, she’s met with intense dark eyes in a hard face, and something sifts in her stomach and she wonders. She wonders if Regina will ever run away and wonders if she’ll get dragged back and dragged back and dragged back like she did, over and over again until she loses the will to try. She wonders if Regina’s ever done anything stupid, anything really stupid like she has. She wonders if there’s anyone at home on her side. 

Regina stares at her, a little furrow between perfect dark brows, misty city lights shining in her fierce eyes, dark hair damp and curling around her shoulders once again. And Emma wonders if she’s not the only one trying to figure someone out. 

She wonders if Regina kisses the way she smokes, like air is the last thing on her mind. 

“God, I’m pathetic.” Regina mutters, finally glancing away. 

Emma searches her. She’s looking out at the darkness with the city lights reflected in her eyes, cigarette smoke swirling out the window and up, up into the rainy night. “Why?” Emma asks, softly. 

“Because.” Regina says sharply, and exhales a thin stream of smoke slowly, slowly. A corner of her mouth twitches in an incredulous, bitter almost-smile. When she speaks, her voice is small and hoarse. “You’re, like, the best thing in my life right now.” 

Something tight unknots in Emma’s stomach, something cold melts in her chest. 

“Well, while we’re both being pathetic...” Emma taps her cigarette ash out the window into the rain. “You’re that for me.”

Regina turns to her sharply, and her makeup’s smudged a little around her eyes, and her eyes are very wide and very dark and full of things Emma can’t see. She gives an ironic, curling sort of smile. “Your life must be pretty depressing.” 

“Yeah,” Emma shrugs. Despite the aching in her chest and the heaviness that curls her shoulders forward the side of her mouth is trying to pull into a smile. A laugh is bubbling in her chest, because this is ridiculous, this is all _so ridiculous_. This is something out of an after-school special, or a bad hipster novel. “I guess it is.” 

And she catches Regina’s eye, and she watches Regina’s lips gradually pull into a small, grudging smile. She watches the smile spread like a sunrise to her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, until the light touches all Emma can see.

It’s the first time she’s ever seen Regina Mills smile. It’s not a happy smile, but Emma doesn’t care. A happy smile would be a lie. 

And then they’re laughing, both of them, laughing hard at how stupid all of this is. Regina’s laugh is high and clear and strangely sweet and Emma wishes she could keep it and save it for a bad day. Emma laughs until her jaw aches. 

And the rain comes down around them.


	3. warming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it seems i’m saying this with every new update, but this one has even more depression, clichés, and a whole lot of tension. still, i have good things planned...
> 
> also, wow, robin’s kind of an asshole. what else is new?

In the days after their outing to the diner, Regina keeps her distance at school, and winter spills in through the gaps. 

Emma’s colder than usual, leaning against the smoking wall in the white-grey afternoon, stalling before she goes home. Her last class finished a while ago, but she knows there are a few extra-curriculars on, so the school isn’t deserted yet. She’s hoping if she hangs around long enough, shit at home will have calmed down by the time she gets in. They were fighting when she left this morning. 

She sighs, taking a long drag of her cigarette and exhaling slowly, watching the grey smoke swirl up into the sky and trying to glean some warmth from it. Part of her hopes Regina might stop by after cheer practise, but honestly, she doubts it. They haven’t really talked since they smoked in her car together, and the few looks they’ve exchanged in the hallways have been... weird. Emma doesn’t know. She’s long since given up on trying to read her relationship with that girl. 

She settles back against the bricks and takes another drag, tugging her leather jacket tighter around herself. It’s old and ratty and not really warm. Her fingers are turning numb on her cigarette. A frosty breeze sends her hair skittering across her face and shoulders. 

She stands up straighter when she hears someone call her name across the parking lot, heart jumping hopefully. She sighs when, instead of flashing dark eyes and fancy perfume, she is met with a long leather coat and too much eyeliner. 

“Good news, Swan,” Killian calls, smirking that annoying self-righteous smirk as he jogs to join her at the wall. His eyes are a little hazy, the eyeliner a little smudged. He’s been smoking pot again, Emma thinks. She can smell it on him. 

Emma glances up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re dropping out to smoke dope full time?”

“Oh, very funny,” Killian mutters, rounding on her and pulling out a cigarette from the pocket of his leather jacket. “No.” He lights up, lifts it to his mouth, and his glazed eyes find hers. “We’re going to a party.”

“Who the fuck asked you to go to a party?” Emma retorts, shooting him a scathing look out of the corner of her eye. 

This seems to be the question he’s been waiting for. He leans back against the brick wall, breathing out a long stream of smoke, and grins wide. “Will Scarlett.”

“Gross,” Emma complains, taking a drag herself. Will Scarlett is a reserve on the football team, one of the quasi-popular boys who hang around Robin Locksley like lost puppies. Somehow, he does not seem the sort to suddenly befriend Killian out of the goodness of his heart. “Why?”

“Because I happened to sell him an exceptionally good weed,” Killian grins, looking proud of himself. 

Emma frowns at him for a second, glancing from the vaguely distant grin to the new Doc Martens on his feet and the leather messenger bag at his hip, full of god knows what. She shifts awkwardly on her feet, trying to fight the wave of annoyance pounding through her. Truth be told, she’s beginning to regret talking to him that first week here, even if he is sort of her only friend. 

After a second, she sighs. “You’re not seriously going, are you?” 

“No,” Killian says, pausing to take a long, deep drag on his cigarette. “We are.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Killian, I’m not going to party at Will Scarlett’s house.”

“Oh, come on, love, don’t be a buzzkill,” Killian says, and there’s a hard edge to his voice that’s been there for a few weeks now. She’s not sure what his issue with her is, but it’s clearly not about a party. “You’re invited, too.”

“I doubt that,” Emma stubs out the remains of her cigarette on the trash can next to her, the way Regina usually does. She glances over her shoulder at the fire escape back into the school. She’s not sure what the time is but her next class must be starting about now.

“No, really!” Killian turns to her, looking slightly disgruntled at her finishing her cigarette. “Will told me to drop by and then he said I could bring my dyke friend if I wanted, which I assume is you –”

“ _Your dyke friend_ ,” Emma mutters, slinging her ratty backpack over her shoulder and turning back towards the fire doors. “Wow, great. Really nice.” 

“No, Emma!” Killian calls. It’s the first time he’s called her by her name in weeks. “Wait, I didn’t mean –”

“Fuck off, Killian,” Emma shakes her head, heading up the steps to the fire doors and letting them clang shut behind her. _Maybe smoking alone isn’t so depressing, after all_. She hurries down the hallway to class, and for the first time in a week, she arrives on time. 

_

 

The next day, Emma’s on her way to History class – already late – when Regina corners her in the hall.

She’s digging in her backpack, trying to find her textbook, which it seems is mysteriously missing again – it’s probably at home getting scribbled on by the little kids, if Shitty Foster Dad isn’t already using it as a beer stand. She’s going to have to share with someone again, which is going to be damn embarrassing, especially now she’s not talking to Killian. 

She sighs, slinging her ratty backpack back up onto her shoulder and when she looks up, resigned, she’s met with Regina Mills, head down, face impassive, striding purposefully towards her down the corridor, heels clicking on the polished floor. 

“Hey,” Regina says briskly, stopping sharply right in front of her. She glances behind her, then angles herself resolutely so she and Emma are hidden a little between two blocks of lockers. 

“Hey,” Emma repeats, a little confused. She frowns, eyes flickering from Regina’s tightly set lips to her manicured hands, fingers drumming against the leather straps of her expensive bag. “Everything ok?”

“Perfectly fine.” Regina says. She pauses. 

For a second, it seems she’s at a loss for words. Her dark eyes are unreadable, shining in the fluorescent strip lights. Behind her, kids are draining into classrooms as the new period starts. Regina breathes in, almost imperceptibly. 

“I heard you were going to Will Scarlett’s party on Saturday.” Regina states. She pauses a second, not looking at her. Her voice is suddenly tight. “With Killian Jones.”

“Is he going around saying that to people?” Emma demands, a flare of annoyance spiking through her chest. “Because it’s not true.”

Regina stares at her. “That you’re going to the party or that you’re going with Killian?”

“Either!” Emma sighs. She shakes her head to herself, tugging her fraying backpack strap on her shoulder. _Fucking Killian._

“Oh.”

If Emma didn’t know any better, she’d have thought she heard the slightest note of disappointment in Regina’s voice. 

“Why?” Emma asks, after a second. 

Regina makes a point of not looking at her when she remarks, “Those parties are terrible.” Her face is guarded, and that tells Emma all she needs to know. “I thought if you were there I ‘d at least have someone to talk to.”

“Oh,” It’s Emma’s turn to be stumped. Something echoes in her chest. 

“And I made you this.” Regina turns around and hands over a Tupperware full of what looks like rice and salad in some kind of dressing. Her voice is hard, controlled as ever. “It’s black bean salad. Just in case your foster father doesn’t, uh, order takeout.” 

With that, she turns around, chin up, eyes downcast, and stalks off down the corridor. Emma stares after her, brow furrowing. 

Emma chokes a little at the image of Regina, at home, in her big fancy kitchen somewhere, chopping and frying and arranging this for her, possibly lying to her mother about it, possibly risking... Risking what? God, she doesn’t know. 

She sighs, staring down at the Tupperware with her chest churning.

Once again, she is late for class. 

_

Over the next few days, Emma thinks a lot about that minute-long conversation, replaying it over and over in her head like a tape, trying to hear something different, something else in Regina’s voice when she asked her to come. But, like a tape, the memory wears thin. 

Saturday afternoon rolls around, and Emma’s sitting on the front step, smoking her way through a pack of Lights and pulling up weeds from between the paving slabs for something to do. Usually, on the weekends, she wanders around the neighbourhood or meets Killian at the park, but today she doesn’t feel it. It’s cold and Killian is weird and her chest is full of guilt and indecision. 

But she sits there, shivering in her ratty flannel and holey jeans, and she thinks for a long time about _those parties are always terrible_ and _those people aren’t my friends_ and _this is for you_ and _I made this for you_ and God, doesn’t she owe it to Regina? She sighs, picking at a fraying thread from the hole at her knee. Regina, who drove her around all night and bought her dinner and gave her an umbrella and a bean salad thing (which was, by the way, the nicest thing she’s eaten in a long time.) 

Emma cups her hand around her lighter and lights up one last cigarette. If she does go, Regina might not even be able to get away from the jackasses she hangs around with. She’d have to apologise to Killian and get him to pick her up on the way. She’d have to find something halfway decent to wear, she guesses, which is definitely going to be easier said than done...

She sighs, exhaling a long stream of smoke. The cold is making her think weird. Cold like this always reminds her of frosty walks and cinnamon cocoa and steaming bathtubs running and running. 

By the time she’s finished her cigarette, she has decided to go to Will Scarlett’s party, if only for Regina. 

So she gets up, she texts Killian a brief apology which he accepts far too quickly – for him, the pre-party drinks and joints with his loser friends have probably already started.

As afternoon turns to evening, and the sky outside her window (partially boarded with cardboard since she moved in; she’s not sure how it got broken) turns pink and purple and finally a deep dark star-spangled blue, she attempts to make herself presentable. 

She hasn’t been to a party in too long. Not a proper, small-town kids getting smashed out of red cups and playing drinking games kind of party at least. Somehow, she doubts anyone in this town thinks of a bunch of underfed kids passing a whiskey bottle around in a disused warehouse as a party. 

The problem is, Emma owns two pairs of jeans, a couple of ratty flannel shirts, a couple of thinning tank tops, a pair of boots with one of the soles taped up, knock-off Vans, some grungy beanies and her leather jacket. 

Eventually, she ends up the nicer pair of jeans (no holes; the fraying ankles are hidden in her boots), the boots, and one of (though it shames her to admit it), Shitty Stripper Girlfriend’s button-up shirts she stole out the laundry. Thankfully, it’s plain and blue and sort of fits. With the leather jacket and her hair brushed, it actually looks okay. As okay as she gets, anyway. 

By the time Killian honks the horn of his shitty peeling black Ford, Emma’s more than ready to get out the house.

She breathes in, braces herself for what might well end up being one of her worse nights here, and heads downstairs, letting the front door slam shut behind her. 

_

They arrive at Will Scarlett’s house about an hour into the party, and clearly, the drinking began early.

Emma and Killian trek up the immaculate front garden. Golden light and thumping music spill from the house. Emma can’t help but gape a little as they cross onto the porch – the house is nice, with real carpets and pristine wallpaper and pointless ornaments on the surfaces. Will Scarlett is a jerk, but he’s clearly a jerk with a real family. Emma scowls. 

“Come on, Swan,” Killian says, pushing through the open front door. “There’s some people I need to introduce you to.”

She follows him through to the kitchen, where kids stand in clusters drinking from plastic cups and chatting increasingly loudly. Nobody really pays much attention to the two latecomers. Emma glances around, scanning the drink-laden table, the bowls of crisps, the laughing assholes she recognises from school. 

Then she sees her. 

Regina’s leaning against the kitchen wall with a glass of something in her hand, in a cluster of football players and rich girls. She’s wearing a black dress that fits her like a glove and a thin gold choker and she looks like something out of Emma’s wildest fucking fantasies, except for the hard look in her eyes and the grim line of her mouth and the fresh bruise on her wrist. 

Emma tries not to look directly at her as she follows Killian through the kitchen, but just for a second, as she passes, she gets a glimpse of Regina’s wide dark eyes, trained on her. She swallows and ducks her head as Killian leads her into the corner, where a bunch of his red-eyed, silver-chained friends are laughing about something. 

“Killian!” One shouts, giving him one of those weird half-hug things boys do. 

“Who’s this?” Another asks, staring Emma up and down. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“Ugh,” Killian makes a face. “No, mate, I wish. This is Emma, I was telling you about. From school. She’s cool.” 

“Emma,” A lanky, skinny boy in a Kiss shirt repeats. By the vacant laugh, she assumes he’s already high. “Cool,”

“Here, love,” Killian offers her a battered tub, filled with squashed brownies. A few of them laugh at this. “Have one of these.” 

“Aren’t you a lesbian?” One of them, a boy with a shaved head and black leather shirt demands, before she can turn down the pot brownie. He’s grinning. His teeth are terrible. “That’s dope. Have you ever had a threesome?”

“Fuck off,” Emma mutters, shaking her head. Clearly, this was a mistake. Killian, the party, everything. She shoots one last glare at Killian, _stupid_ fucking Killian with his black eyeshadow and Hot Topic jewellery and endless supply of weed, stupid fucking Killian who isn’t her friend and who never has been. 

Then she shoulders her way through a group of gossiping girls in uncomfortable shoes to the drinks table, grabs a beer, and heads back through to the living room. There’s a shitty, soulless pop song playing, and kids stand in clusters drinking and talking or laughing. 

Emma sighs, collapsing onto a couch and cracking open the beer. Even if tonight is hell on earth, which it seems to be shaping up to be, at least there’s free booze. She wonders if there’s free cereal too, if a loaf of bread smuggled into her backpack might look weird. 

She’s not sure how long she sits there, drinking by herself and wondering why the hell she ever thought it was a good idea to talk to a boy who wore fingerless clothes unironically. Nobody really pays that much notice to her, except every now and again someone will flop down beside her on the couch, happily tell her how drunk they are, and then stagger off to get drunker. 

That is, until the group Regina was with earlier drifts into the room. 

Emma’s head immediately jerks up, and she scans the group quickly. It’s clear most of them are already pissed; some of the girls stagger and clutch each other, laughing, the boys nudge and stumble. They all look happy, and stupid, and connected. Regina Mills stands in their midst and stands out, alone with her imposter blank expression and hard eyes. 

Emma watches them for a while, sort of fascinated, like a scientist with an unfamiliar species, or one of those weird bird guys with binoculars. They keep laughing so loudly Emma wonders if Regina’s not the only one faking. 

“You’re all so boring,” She hears Regina saying, in that flat, sardonic voice she has that makes it sound half like she’s joking with them and half like she’s insulting them. “Literally anyone else in this house would have a better conversation.” 

“Right,” One boy who Emma vaguely recognises as a cornerback who’s in her English class laughs. 

And apparently she’s missed something, because then, abruptly – 

Regina breaks out of the group, stalks right over and sits herself shamelessly on Emma’s knee, winding her slender arms around Emma’s neck.

“What the fuck?” Emma asks, hot blood immediately rushing to her face. Her hands instinctively come up to go around Regina’s waist, but she thinks better of it. Her heart jumps wildly in her chest. 

“Go with it,” Regina tells her, not even looking at her at all. She’s doing that maybe fake disdainful look at the drunk group, which they clearly take as part of the joke, because some of them laugh. 

“Seriously?” One girl grins, overly-plucked eyebrow lifting. “Why _Emma Swan_?”

“Because Emma’s cool,” Regina replies smoothly, settling her arms fully around Emma’s neck. “Aren’t you?” 

“Um,” Emma says. She’s not entirely sure what is happening. 

Somewhere behind the blonde girls, a few masculine voices whoop and call out. They’re saying something gross and sexist and probably homophobic, but for once Emma’s fists and chest don’t clench with fury at these small town assholes. Her heart is racing too fast. Her mind is too full. 

Regina shifts subtly, so that her mouth is nearer Emma’s ear, and then, barely audible, she catches, “Meet me upstairs in twenty minutes. I need a real conversation soon or I might die.”

And with that, Regina flashes the fakest smile Emma has ever seen at her asshole friends and gets to her feet, brushing down her dress and soon disappearing into the throng of kids, her secret message safely taken as some kind of typical dry Regina-joke. 

Emma sits there, face burning, as the next twenty minutes tick by agonisingly slowly. She waits. She taps her shoe against the floor in time with the bass-heavy music. She sips her beer. She watches a girl in pink lipstick throw up in a plant pot. The clock on the wall ticks ever more slowly. 

Eventually she sighs, gives up and sets off to find a bathroom before she meets Regina. Emma trudges upstairs to find a bathroom first, and she’s met with raised voices from a shadowy bedroom. She pauses on the landing. Her stomach clenches. 

She knows these voices. 

“How many times do I have to say no to you? What century are you from?” 

“Oh, fine, I see how it is,” Robin Locksley is saying, his pompous, arrogant voice rising. “It’s fine for one but not for another.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how it is!” Regina’s voice declares, slightly incredulous, utterly _pissed_. 

“What, not white trash enough for you?” Robin says, all patronizing and articulate . “Not going to make Mommy angry enough to make the front page?”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ –” Regina snarls, and by this point, Emma’s feet have carried her into the room. 

Regina and Robin are standing close to each other near the doorway, both wearing furious expressions. At least, she thinks. Emma doesn’t spare much of a glance for Robin. She’s too fixated on Regina, shoulders back, fists curled, chest rising and falling heavily, glaring dangerously up at this stupid small town, small minded _boy_ with dark eyes that flash like a warning sign. 

Both of them start and stare at her when she walks in - Emma pauses, looking from Regina to Robin and back again. Her heart thunders in her chest. For a moment, the tension holds and stretches between the three of them, stretches until it becomes too tight, too terse, too thin. 

“Um,” Emma clears her throat, ignoring the pounding of her heart. “What’s going on in here?” Her voice sounds harsh and tight. She’s angry, she realises. Angry that Regina’s angry and angry at this stupid trust fund asshole, and angry that she doesn’t have a clue what anyone’s talking about.

“That’s none of your business,” Robin replies, tone icy and clipped. “Everything’s perfectly fine.”

“Well, it kind of is my business, because that’s clearly a lie.” Before she knows what she’s doing, Emma’s stepping closer, wanting to put as much space between Robin and Regina as possible. 

“Drop it, Emma,” Regina mutters. Her eyes are hard, and that glint of fury is still there. She sounds resigned. “He’s not worth it.”

“Regina,” Robin stares at her, all patronizing and self-important. “Do you have something you’d like to say?”

“There are several things I’d like to say,” Regina snarls the words, striding forward to square up to this boy who is so much bigger than her. Emma holds out her hand, keeping her back.

“Hey! Regina!” Emma rounds on her, trying to catch her eye. She looks down into her face, trying to regulate her breathing, to calm her down. “He’s not worth it remember?”

“Excuse me,” Robin snaps, and Emma whirls around to meet his icy stare. Regina’s hand lands on her arm firmly. It’s her turn to be held back. “But I frankly don’t see what –” He runs scathing eyes over Emma, lingering on her Duct-taped boots. “ _you_ have to do with any of this.”

“ _Emma_ ,” Regina says through her teeth, tugging on Emma’s arm. Her dark eyes leap up to meet Emma’s purposefully, telling her to drop it. 

“Oh, I get it.” Robin says. “She’s more your type, right? Another street rat? Trying to get in the paper again? God. Anything for attention.”

“Go fuck yourself, Robin,” Regina spits, suddenly surging towards him with her eyes flashing like sparks off a fire. Her voice is low and powerful and flaming, and she’s tiny and precariously balanced on high heels and she glares up into his face like she wants to _destroy_ him, and for just a second, Emma believes that she could. “Seeing as nobody else wants to do the job.”

“You –”

“Emma,” Regina’s voice is more restrained, and there’s something else in her face, something Emma can’t quite detect but that makes her heart pound and her stomach churn protectively. “Go downstairs. I can handle this.”

“But –” Emma begins. 

“But nothing.” Regina snaps. “A little boy is throwing his toys out of the pram. Go downstairs, get a drink. Enjoy the party.” And then, quieter, “Someone should.”

Emma hesitates, until Regina throws her a look. It’s a look Emma knows well, one she recognises from rainy days leaning against the smoking wall, from blurry city lights and sunset cigarettes under the bleachers. The one that tells her she doesn’t want to talk anymore, that she’s done explaining herself and her ghosts. The one Emma’s seen too many times in the mirror. 

She swallows around the lump in her throat and nods. 

She flips Robin off as she stalks out. 

_

A few minutes later, and Emma’s sitting in the corner of the jerk’s living room again, by herself, sipping from a plastic cup of vodka mixed with something tastes like watermelon and vinegar. It’s gross, but so is this party and these people and their fake small-town laughs. So is the boy upstairs and the girl she keeps almost knowing almost understanding until something like this happens and makes everything else she knows slip through her fingers like rain. Like cigarette smoke. 

All around her, dumb rich kids who think they’re happy and getting plastered or crying and blaming it all on the alcohol or sticking their tongues down each others throats just to feel any warmth at all. It’s pathetic, and it’s embarrassing, and she can’t help the anxiety building like white noise in her chest. She can’t help the words echoing in her head. The tightness in her burning throat. _Another street rat_. 

She needs a cigarette. 

When she looks up, she gets Regina Mills, walking purposefully towards her, and she shakes her head, because damn if that’s not almost the same thing. 

“Hey,” Emma says hurriedly, looking up at the brunette striding towards her. Her heart clenches. She scans her. She seems no worse for wear, whatever happened with Robin. 

Regina has a bottle of something in her hand, and she looks pissed off, still. “Come on,” She says, holding out her free hand to Emma. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Emma’s stomach flips, but she doesn’t think twice. She doesn’t think. She takes Regina’s soft, warm hand in her own and lets the brunette lead her through the party, stepping carefully in her tall heels. Her heart is beating fast. 

Regina leads her through the messy, sticky kitchen and onto the porch, and then out into the brisk night air. She leads her through the garden, past the crying girls and kissing couples and across the road to where a small, sad-looking kids park is half-hidden in the shadows of the trees. 

Emma stares at it. “What’s this?”

“This, Emma,” Regina states, looking up at the mouldering, castle-shaped climbing frame above them, “Is where the real party begins.”

Emma’s heart beats faster at that, and turns to thunder when Regina reaches down and starts taking off her shoes, fingers fumbling for a second with the complicated straps. When Regina finally gets them off, she hooks them over her wrist, clutches the bottle firmer in her hand, and sets her other hand to the rungs of the climbing frame. 

“Regina –” Emma protests, a pang of worry hitting her. 

“Don’t ruin it,” Regina snaps, bare feet stepping onto the rungs. She pulls herself up a few bars. 

Emma watches for a second. Convinced Regina’s sober enough she won’t fall, she reaches up to the first few bars and follows suit, hauling herself up the kids playground. Regina sets her shoes and the bottle on the ledge before climbing up, and reaches down to pull Emma up after her. 

“What the hell?” Emma asks, smiling slightly as the brisk night air stings her cheeks and throat. She settles herself beside Regina, legs dangling off the edge of the climbing frame. 

Regina doesn’t say anything, neatening her fancy shoes, side by side behind them, and opening the bottle of what the label says is strawberry wine. Emma watches her until she settles, bare legs and feet dangling close to Emma’s over the side. She folds her hands in her lap, casts her eyes out over the dark road and streetlamps and faint noise of the party ahead of them. The night breeze toys with the curled ends of her short dark hair. 

After a long time, she bites her lip and when she speaks her voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry about what happened with Robin.”

“Sorry?” Emma shakes her head, incredulous. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“How do you know?” Regina asks, voice empty. She stares out across the road. She breathes in. “A lot of bad things that have happened around here are my fault.”

“Come on,” Emma says softly, tilting her head to try and catch Regina’s eyes. “That guy’s an ass.”

“Yes,” Regina agrees simply.

“What happened anyway?” Emma ventures, tentatively. Her heart feels thick and slow, her breath sticks in her throat. “Was he... pressuring you?” 

Regina lets out a small, mirthless laugh. “Something like that.” There is another long silence. A car speeds by on the road, and Regina begins to talk, for the first time recently, Emma suspects, honestly. 

“He wasn’t angry with me because I refused to have sex with him. He was angry because he knows I’ve... been with someone else. Someone he considers beneath him. He thinks it’s _unfair_.” Regina pauses, lip curling with disgust at Robin for a second. But aside from that, her voice is calm and soft, and strangely detached, as if she’s talking about something that’s happened to someone else. “There was an incident. About a year and a half ago. It was very public. Everyone at school knows about it, they just know better than to talk about it.” She pauses. “He thinks I do stupid things for attention. Because of my mother.”

Emma stares at her. 

She’s not sure what to say. Clearly, this is something that touches deep. Something that might, probably explain everything Emma’s been stumped about for last few months. There is a look on Regina’s face Emma’s never seen before. 

Regina lifts the bottle of strawberry wine to her lips and takes a long drink. Wordlessly, she passes it to Emma. Not wanting her to have to be self-destructive by herself, Emma takes a long gulp. It tastes like sugar and rubbing alcohol, and burns in her throat and stomach.  
She nearly chokes.

“Jesus, Regina –” Emma splutters, coughing slightly. She hands the bottle back to her. “What the hell is that?”

Regina laughs, softly, not quite sweetly. She turns her face to look at Emma, and there’s a tiny rare smile on her lips that turns Emma’s chest hot and melting. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“That might be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Emma retorts. She raise an eyebrow. “And I’ve eaten some shit in my life.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” Regina remarks, smirking a little. 

Emma just smiles, nudging her shoulder with hers affably. 

Regina glances over at her, smirk still on her face, eyes sparkling and full of something, and glances down at their dangling feet as she reaches over and gently, firmly, twines her hand through Emma’s. Emma’s fingers close tight around hers and her chest flutters. Regina's hand is small and soft and warm and she can't ever imagine letting it go. 

They fall into a companionable silence, passing the terrible wine back and forth, and Emma falls into thought. Wonders who that someone beneath Robin was, and wonders about the incident. Wonders why this girl, this stunning, sparkling, razor-sharp woman is wasting her nights in a sad playground with a sad street kid, getting wasted on bad wine and killing herself with bad cigarettes. Wonders how she got this way. 

“What are you doing?” Emma asks softly, sadly, fondly. Regina looks up at her, and her big brown eyes seem impossibly wide. “Why are you out here in the cold with me instead of in there with everyone else?”

“Because.” Regina says simply. 

For a long time, they sit in silence. Their hands clasp so tightly Emma can’t ever imagine them letting go, can’t ever imagine being wholly separate from this girl, this woman, ever again. 

“Sometimes I think I hate everything,” Regina confesses in a small voice. “But I don’t hate you.”

And she leans in and rests her head gently against the crook of Emma’s shoulder. 

Emma feels a strange sense of calm come over her. With Regina nestled softly against her, the smell of her hair and the booze on her breath and the warmth of her skin seeping into her, their freezing fingers twined so tightly together, she knows there are so many things that are wrong, so many reasons for either of them to walk away. But somehow all those things are okay, because they’re together. 

It doesn’t matter Regina smells of liquor and her mascara’s smudged around her eyes and she never smiles and there’s a bruise on her wrist that Emma’s been wondering about for days and days and days. It doesn’t matter Emma stinks of cigarette smoke and her jeans have holes in and she hasn’t eaten a hot meal in weeks and weeks and weeks. 

Because Regina’s head is on her shoulder, and her hand is in her hand. Their feet dangle over the edge of the playground castle, scuffed boots brushing bare toes with red nails. 

The air is cold, but for the first time since she can remember, Emma feels warm, warm, _warm_. 

Warm in a way no cold can touch.


	4. worlds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well let’s not address the eighty four years since the last chapter. i apologise. i got back round to this eventually, didn’t i! and surprisingly, this one’s actually, dare i say it, nice? ish? 
> 
> tws for this chapter are implied parental abuse (again), weird relationships with food, and very briefly implied whitewashing/racism. but it’s all very blink and you’ll miss it. this is a nice one, i promise.

The party, strangely, is the catalyst of several new things, in the week that follows.

Firstly, Emma doesn’t talk to Killian anymore. By extension, this means she doesn’t talk to _anyone_ anymore, Regina Mills excluded. Instead, she sits alone against the bricks of the smoking wall and lunch, working through packs of cigarettes and stolen cereal bars, using her little penknife to try and carve her initials into one of the bricks. Sometimes, when the weather’s really bad, she sits in the library and actually tries to focus on her notes. That’s pretty weird.

When she sees Killian in the hallway or class, he pretty much blanks her. She’s not sure whether it was the fight before, or telling his trashy friends to fuck off, but he’s not happy with her and she’s fine with that. Somehow, she feels less alone with herself than she did with Killian. 

And secondly, Regina seems to be trying to counteract any damage done at the party by acting even colder and bitchier than usual. Every time Emma sees her with her group, she’s looks pissed off, and in Psychology she sits bolt upright and she swears she doesn’t move once. 

Despite sharing a bottle of terrible wine and rare laughter together that night, Regina doesn’t make any move to look at, let alone talk to her at all. 

Which is why Emma can’t help being a little surprised when Regina stalks right over her at the smoking wall one lunch time, looking for all the world like a woman on a mission. 

“Um,” Emma says, stomach squeezing slightly. She stands up straighter against the bricks, cigarette halting on it’s way to her mouth. “Hey?”

Regina’s stalking purposefully across the concrete to her, head bowed against the cold wind. Her face is hard and annoyed, her makeup harsher than usual today. Emma can see the slight line of it under her jaw. She skips greeting Emma like a normal person, instead looking her square in the eyes and demanding, “I need a cigarette.”

“Um,” Emma fishes the pack out of her jeans pocket with numb fingers and holds it out. “Yeah, sure.” 

Regina takes one and lights up. The minute she inhales the thin smoke, she seems to relax, leaning back a little against the wall. The grey wind winds through her dark hair. Her eyes close for a long moment. And then, “Sorry. I think it’s a fair exchange for half a bottle of wine.”

Emma looks over at her, cheeks stinging in the bitter breeze. “Don’t worry about it.”

A thick, itchy silence falls over them. Emma taps her battered boot awkwardly against the ground. She’s not exactly sure what she thought their next encounter after the playground would be like, but she’s pretty sure it wasn’t this. Beside her, Regina is silent, staring out ahead of her like the first time they did this. 

She sighs, and smokes. 

“So,” Emma says.

“So?” Regina repeats sharply, one perfect dark eyebrow raised. 

“How are you?” Emma asks, and then cringes internally because really, _how are you?_ So not what they do. She sighs, lifting her cigarette to her mouth and taking a drag. She glances sideways at her. “How’s Robin?”

“Pretending nothing happened.” Regina says crisply, blowing a thin stream of smoke up into the air. Leaning against the brick wall with her dark hair whipping around her, cigarette caught elegantly between her fingers, she looks like something out of a movie. “But he hates me.”

Slowly, Regina’s red lips quirk into a superior smirk, her dark eyes glinting knowingly as she raises her cigarette to her lips. 

Emma lifts an eyebrow. “You’re happy about that?”

“Please,” Regina shakes her head, still staring straight ahead of her. “I would much rather that boy hated me.”

“Yeah,” Emma mutters, cold fingers fumbling with her cigarette for a second. “I get that.”

Finally, Regina turns to look at her. Her expression is cold and detached, but her eyes latch onto Emma’s and don’t let go. “Killian Jones?” She asks, and her voice makes it clear exactly what she thinks of him. 

“Who’s that?” Emma asks, only half joking. She takes another long drag on her cigarette. 

Sure, it was nice to have someone to eat lunch with. But it’s much nicer having a free period without the smell of weed and the word _love_ every five seconds. And as for the smoking alone, well. She doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.

The two of them fall into companionable silence, even if Regina’s half of it is colder than it has been for a while. The brunette stands against the wall, mouth set in a grim line, hard dark eyes staring straight ahead while she smokes. _Just like old times_.

Emma finishes her cigarette. She sighs, trying to work out the time in her head. She can’t stay too late. She doesn’t want to get locked out again. Last time, she sprained her wrist trying to climb up the drainpipe. She clears her throat, stubbing her cigarette on the trash can beside her, when she realises Regina is staring at her. 

“Uh,” Emma says, turning to her. Her eyes dart from the brunette’s harsh posture to the almost calculating look on her face. 

Regina looks at her for a long time. The cigarette in her hand leaks smoke up into the air. And then, quite suddenly, “Do you want to come to my house on Saturday?”

“Um,” It’s just so random, and so unlikely, and yet so _Regina_ , Emma flounders. “I don’t think your mom will be too thrilled with that –”

“My parents are away all weekend.” Regina tells her crisply. Her dark eyes burn into hers. “Some state government thing. I don’t know. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“No, I –” Emma pauses. “I want to. I just – why?”

“Because.” Regina lifts the cigarette to her perfectly-painted lips. 

And that’s the end of it. Emma knows enough of Regina’s _becauses_. 

She passes her a discreet note in Psychology the next day with her address on, and that’s that. 

 

-

 

Emma gets up early on Saturday. 

(Emma gets up early everyday, when, invariably, one of the little kids starts screaming for breakfast or his mommy or something nobody round here can give him.) 

She loads her jacket and lighter into her backpack, already half-filled with crap from the school week, and creeps quietly down the stairs. Shitty Foster Dad is passed out on the couch. She gives him a look of disgust, steps over the beer cans littering the ratty carpet and heads out the door. 

This is standard procedure on weekends – as depressing as it is to wander around the small-town suburbs smoking, it’s more depressing staying at home fighting off sticky toddlers who cry all the time. She knows it’s way too early to go to Regina’s, but still. She wanders until it isn’t. 

By the time she gets to Regina’s neighbourhood, she starts having doubts. The houses are all huge and white and evenly spaced, with double parking lots and neat hedges and shiny painted mail boxes. They look like doll houses, or a film set. Emma stalks down the street like a stray, too aware of her holey jeans and ratty backpack and the stink of cigarettes on her, feeling like she’s trespassing just by breathing. 

As she heads further down Regina’s street, she can hear music blaring from one of the houses. _Regina’s_ house. 

Frowning, she walks closer. Close enough to recognise the song. It’s loud soulless angry indie trash, the kind of music Emma plays when she wants to forget the rest of the world or piss off the neighbours. Not the kind of thing she would have associated with Regina Mills. 

Slightly confused, she slopes up the front garden path, red cold fingers fiddling with the frays on her backpack strap. Her gaze lingers on the manicured bushes, the mechanical lines of flowerbeds. She steps up onto the bright white porch and knocks uncertainly. 

“It’s open!”

Frowning, she pushes slowly through the door.

Inside, Regina Mills is whirling around the fanciest foyer she’s ever seen, wearing yoga pants and a silky black t-shirt and red lipstick, brown eyes bright. There are vases of fake flowers on the polished table top behind her.

“Regina!” Emma says, more out of shock than anything. “What are you doing?”

Regina grins at her, that rare, dazzling, little-kid grin, dark hair tossed back, the happiest Emma’s ever seen her. “Being free,” she says, breathless. Her dark eyes twinkle. 

Before Emma can respond, Regina reaches out and grabs her by the hand, roughly pulling her close. “Come on,” She demands harshly. “Have fun.” 

Regina’s hands close around hers, pulling her after her as she twirls around. The front door slams behind her. 

Before she knows what’s happening, she’s dropping her backpack to the floor and jumping around the mayor’s fancy foyer, hand in hand with _Regina Mills_ , no rhythm, no moves, just jumping and spinning and eventually laughing until her stomach hurts because honestly, what the _fuck_ is happening? 

When the song comes to a stop, Regina finally stands still. She’s holding Emma’s hands in the foyer, and in just her little black socks she has to look up to meet Emma’s eyes. Her smile’s gone, but that doesn’t matter. It was there. 

“Hey,” She says. Her voice is ordinary, as if they’ve just met at the smoking wall or the bleachers. 

“Hey!” Emma stares at her, breathless, grin still lingering on her face. “The hell was that?”

Regina’s dark eyes bore into hers, with that look in them that tells her she’s in trouble. The smallest smirk tugs at her lips. “That was me celebrating.” She drops her hands abruptly.

Emma stares at her. Sometimes she forgets how young Regina is, forgets she might need to blow off steam or let go once in a while. Yet another piece is added to the puzzle-Regina in her head. 

Suddenly, Regina is quiet. She glances down at her socked feet on the hardwood floor for a second, and then over her shoulder at the door to the rest of the house. “Come on,” She says eventually. Her voice is tight. “I’ll show you round.”

So Emma follows Regina through the foyer into the house. She can’t help but gape as they come into the most beautiful living room she’s ever seen – plush rugs, enormous couch, styled to match the fancy wallpaper, real paintings on the walls, decorative vases on the mantelpiece. She can see through to the open plan kitchen too, all gleaming marble countertops and expensive matching cookware. 

“Shit,” Emma can’t help but stare. It’s exactly the image that comes to mind when you hear the words _mayor’s house_. “This is where you live?”

“Yes,” Regina says. Her voice is suddenly tight and clipped. “Horrible, isn’t it?”

And Emma’s about to call her crazy and get pissed at her for not realising what she has, but something in Regina’s words hook in her and she stops. She looks a little closer. She steps further into the living room.

Everything is spotless – a little too spotless. The couch looks like it’s never been sat on. The flowers in the fancy vases everywhere are fake, plastic. Emma looks around, but she can’t see any photographs, no childhood drawings or trophies. No coffee rings, no dog-eared books or DVDs left out. It smells of air freshener, all chemical and artificial. 

It looks, Emma realises, like a showroom.

Now, Emma’s shitty little box room at her foster dad’s is hardly a real _home_ – but, she thinks, neither is this. 

“Yes,” Regina states, as if she knows exactly what Emma’s just worked out. She sighs, looking back up across the room at her. “Are you hungry? We could make some lunch.”

“Yeah,” Emma nods awkwardly, grateful for the distraction. “Lunch would be good.” 

So she follows Regina into the gleaming kitchen and leans against the counter while Regina gets out artisan bread and china plates. “How do you feel about sandwiches? I have chicken, salad, cheese, whatever you want.” 

“Uh, surprise me.” Emma says, trying to stop staring at everything like some dumb kid at a museum. “You seem to know your way around a kitchen. That bean thing you made me was to die for.” 

“Oh, that.” Regina says, as if just remembering. A faint smile comes to her lips. “Thank you.” 

The big screen doors flood rare sunlight from the perfectly-manicured garden over the surfaces and the tiled floor, and another song has started on the radio, softer and more relaxed than the first. Regina hums lightly under her breath and swings her hips as she slices bread and meat and seasons salad leaves. 

Emma assumed they were having one sandwich each, but Regina shoves her the plate, with both hefty sandwiches still on it. She stares down at it. “Aren’t you having any?”

“Oh no, I have my own.” Regina shakes her head, padding across the big tiled floor towards the double-doored fridge, and opening it. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach what she wants, which is a small Tupperware on the top shelf. Emma can’t help but stare at her. Her black t-shirt slips slightly off one tan shoulder as she stretches. 

Then Emma notices the rest of the contents of the fridge and frowns a little. “What’s all that?” 

The top shelf of the fridge is mostly occupied by similar Tupperwares, all bearing a little white label with a date and a bunch of numbers on it. She glances at the one in Regina’s hands as the brunette closes the fridge and leads her back into the living room. 

“My food for the weekend.” Regina say tightly. She avoids Emma’s eye as she sits down on the pristine couch, motioning for her to do the same. “So my mother knows I won’t come off my diet while she’s gone.”

“Oh,” Emma says, balancing her plate awkwardly on her lap as she settles into the couch. “That’s...”

“Fucked up.” Regina finishes for her crisply, even as she opens up the tub. 

Emma glances up awkwardly and catches Regina’s big dark eyes. For a second they just stare at each other. The air feels stretched and thin and she’s starting to think this was a terrible idea. But then a small, slow smile tugs at Regina’s lips. “Eat your sandwiches.” She tells her.

The radio is still blaring, while they sit opposite each other on the big couch eating in a companionable silence, laughing about horrible things and for once, not needing to smoke to communicate. When an upbeat song comes on, Regina pulls her up by the hand and they dance around the ugly perfect room in their socks, and laugh at how awful everything is. 

After a few hours, Regina sits up and takes Emma’s hand again and her brown eyes are bright and alive with light. “Do you want to go bake some brownies?” 

And so then they’re twirling around the kitchen, flicking flour and sugar around and laughing, and she lets Emma lick the bowl and the spoon, and then they sit on the tiled floor by the oven watching them bake and it’s the weirdest and happiest day Emma can remember. 

Later, they’re both lying across Regina’s enormous bed, silky sheets crumpling beneath them, soft acoustic Hozier washing over them from the fancy speakers on the windowsill. Emma’s not really sure how they got there. Neither of them have said anything for a while, but it’s nice. 

A sense of calm has settled like a film of dust over Emma’s chest, a feeling she’s chased after too many times to no end. She breathes easily, feet moving slowly to the music in their worn Superman socks. It’s been a long time since she’s just laid still and listened to music, really listened, not just pumped up the volume of ancient rock songs in her headphones to drown out the shouting from downstairs or the crying in the next room.

The song changes. The simple guitar and soft voice fill the air and Emma stares up at the dust motes swirling beneath the ceiling, trying to  
ignore the mounting urge in her chest and palms that tells her to reach over and – 

Regina turns to her, quite suddenly, and says, “You can stay tonight if you want.”

“Oh?” Emma says, carefully, very carefully. Her heart is pounding. 

“Mmm,” Regina nods softly. After a hesitant moment, she twists around on the bed, dark eyes flickering up to Emma’s. “I know it’s not easy to sleep in certain environments and -”

“Yeah.” Emma catches her eye, nods haltingly. She’s not sure whether Regina’s talking about her situation at home with Shitty Foster Dad, or about herself alone in this big cold house, but either way Emma understands. “I’ll stay.”

Instantly, a small smile breaks over Regina’s face like something spilling. “Ok.”

Emma tries to match her smile and finds that for once, it happens easily. Of its own accord, her finger brushes gently over Regina’s wrist. Regina’s thumb touches her knuckle. Very slowly, Regina’s fingers slide down and slip through hers. They’ve held hands before, but this, this slow twining on Regina’s bed, listening to romantic music, this feels different. 

Emma’s heart nearly stops when she glances sideways at Regina, across the slippery silk sheets, and Regina’s face is so soft and open she almost looks like a different person. 

“Regina, I –” Emma begins. She barely recognises her own voice. 

“Shh.” Regina puts a finger to her lips. “Don’t ruin it.”

And so they lay side by side, faces so close their noses are almost touching. Close enough for Emma to count every one of her eyelashes. Close enough for her to feel the soft warmth of Regina’s breath against her lips. Between them, their hands are gripping each other tight. Emma’s pretty sure if she tried to let go, she’d lose some skin. 

Outside the bedroom window, the grey clouds turn orange and pink, and the music plays and plays. 

It’s fully dark by the time Regina sits up in bed suddenly, still not breaking the hold she has on Emma’s hand, and decides, “As nice as this is, I’m going to get changed. You can borrow a T-shirt or something to sleep in if you –”

“Oh, no, Regina, it’s fine, I can just keep –”

Regina doesn’t let her finish. “Top drawer.” She tells her, standing up and stretching with a long breath out. She goes to the huge sleek drawers at the far wall and retrieves her own pyjamas, before slipping into her bathroom. 

Emma huffs, sitting herself up. The sheets crumple under her as she gets up. Beyond the window, a handful of stars smatter the deep blue sky. Tentatively, she goes to the drawer Regina opened. Inside is a multitude of silk and lace that make her head spin, but she finds a few soft cotton t-shirts folded neatly at the back. The whole drawer smells of Regina. 

She’s just reaching for a pair of plain black shorts when she dislodges something that looks utterly out of place – a large, man’s jacket, folded and tucked out of sight. Vaguely, she remembers it’s the jacket Regina was wearing, that first day at the smoking wall. She’d taken it off before she went back inside. 

Emma frowns, thumb brushing absently over the sturdy material. Beside it is lodged a brightly-coloured package of what looks like candy, the label written all in Spanish. 

“Hey.”

Emma jumps as Regina closes the bathroom door behind her, heat rushing to her face at being caught snooping. She turns around, mouth open to defend herself, but before she gets a word out Regina’s dark eyes go from her face to the open draw and visible candy bag. 

“That’s my dad’s.” Regina tells her blandly. “We’re not supposed to have it in the house.” She pauses, biting her lower lip for a second. “I’ll, uh, let you change.” 

And she slips out the bedroom door before Emma can even process the tiny silky pyjamas she’s wearing. 

Alone in Regina Mills’ bedroom, Emma quickly pushes the drawer shut. 

She strips off her flannel and pulls the t-shirt over her head quickly, wondering about the jacket and the candy. Obviously, she’s unearthed Regina’s hiding place. As she tugs on Regina’s shorts, she thinks about what Regina said to her that night at the playground. If the jacket belonged to whoever it was Robin Locksley thought was ‘beneath him’. She tries to shake the thought off, kneeling to stuff her jeans and shirt into her backpack. 

She pulls the rubber band out of her greasy hair and lets it fall wildly over her shoulders. Regina’s pyjamas are a bit too small for her, but they’re comfy, and they smell like Regina, like perfume and cigarettes and night time drives through city lights.

Before she can even begin to consider _we’re not supposed to have it in the house_ and everything that implies, there’s a sudden knock on the door, and Regina cracks it open, then fully when she sees Emma’s dressed. 

“I was thinking,” Regina says. Her dark eyes are shining with an idea. “Let’s not sleep up here.”

“Then where...?” Emma trails off. She scans the brunette quickly: she seems to have perked up again, that rare light switched on behind her eyes. 

Regina only smiles. “Come on.”

So Emma follows her out onto the landing and down the stairs, trying hard not to stare like a pervert or a twelve year old. For the first time, she really takes in Regina’s little red shorts and matching top. Her mouth is dry. She has to admit, she expected nothing less, but still. She can’t help wondering if she wore those on purpose. 

“It is rather childish.” Regina admits, as she leads Emma back into the living room. She stands on the rug, tilting her head towards the fancy white couch. “But I thought we could take the couch cushions off. We’d have more room.”

“Right,” Emma says. 

“And besides,” Regina says. “I don’t want to sleep up there tonight.”

Emma stares at her, thinking about all the nights she’s spent lying awake in beds that don’t feel right, and she doesn’t press the matter further. “Okay,” She says. 

“Well, come on, then!” Regina tells her, grinning suddenly as she hauls off one massive cushion, more than half her size. 

And just like that, the mood lifts. 

Emma’s heart skips and jumps again as she helps Regina tug and pull the hefty cushions off the fancy couch and shove them into a bed shape on the floor. She feels like a little kid, hauling cushions. She hasn’t made a den in years. 

Regina goes to get fresh white sheets from the laundry cupboard, because of course the Millses have one of those. They work as a team to fit them over the misshapen bed they’ve made for themselves, laughing and flopping all over the place. 

When finally their bed is made, Regina gets up and comes back the tub of brownies. They sit cross-legged on the makeshift bed and eat while the TV plays black and white reruns in the background. Or rather, Emma eats. She savours every last gooey mouthful and tries to get Regina to do more than break off corners. 

Eventually, when the TV clock reads way past midnight, and Emma feels fuller than she has in a long time – full of good food and good music and laughter and Regina Mills – she sighs, flopping back against the pillows. She wiggles a little until she’s comfy and grins. “This bed is awesome.”

Regina glances down at her, eyes shining. “Seriously?”

“Seriously!” Emma enthuses, nodding. “Beats my lumpy old mattress any day. Come on,” She tugs at Regina’s elbow, and Regina laughs and settles down beside her. 

“You’re right.” Regina admits. Her voice is languid and sleepy and Emma loves it. “This is amazing.”

“Right?” Emma grins, nudging her. “Right?”

Suddenly, Regina lifts the white covers high and pulls them down over their heads, making a sort of tent around the two of them. 

Emma feels a laugh bubbling up in her chest, a real, pure laugh, like she hasn’t felt for years. “What’s this?” She whispers, rolling onto her side so they’re facing each other. “Our den?”

Regina’s huge dark eyes find hers across the pillows and the hint of a smile tugs at her lips when she corrects her. “Our world.”

And somehow, just for a moment, Emma believes her.

The world has shrunk down to the soft sheets and couch cushions, the white blankets draped overhead softening edges and softening the light. The population of this world lie close to each other, looking at each other across the pillows. Nobody else can get in. In this world, there is a slow soft sleepy feeling in Emma’s chest and all through her bones that she thinks might be happiness, of the purest, easiest kind.

Regina’s dark eyes sparkle at her across the pillow, never leaving hers. After a second, she takes her lip between her teeth, biting softly. A slow smile makes its way over Emma’s face. 

Regina leans in first, moving gently across the pillows and cushions to slip a soft hand against Emma’s face and bump her nose with her own. Emma’s hand flits tentatively to Regina’s waist. Her thumb strokes awkwardly against the silky material of her pyjama shorts, and the warm strip of skin above. 

Regina’s lips are soft and sweet when they finally touch hers, opening instinctively when Emma presses back a little firmer. 

The kiss is uncertain, testing. 

Emma’s stomach turns heavily, over and over. Regina whimpers softly, and the taste of her is clear and sweet, and nothing like cigarettes. 

It’s over as fast as it began, but hands remain gently on the bodies that do not belong to them, and their noses bump for a second time. Emma releases a long breath, and when her eyes open, Regina’s looking at her with such softness and tenderness it’s hard to recognise this gentle creature with her sparkling dark eyes and mischievous half-smile as the sullen, hard-faced bitch, smoking behind a school parking lot. 

And just like that, Regina reaches up and pulls the covers back over their heads. Strangely, the rest of the room hasn’t changed at all in the years they have surely been under the sheets. 

Regina smiles at her, but her face has changed yet again. Now there’s a certain sadness in her eyes when she looks at her, the sadness Emma recognised and latched onto all those weeks ago. 

“Goodnight, Emma,” She says, and without another world curls up on Emma’s chest, like it’s her place. (It is.) 

Emma swallows hard, and a small smile lingers on her lips despite everything. She reaches to turn out the light, settles down against the pillows, placing a gentle arm around Regina. She closes her eyes. Together, they sink into the darkness, breathing. Just breathing. And for the first time in a long time, there is no tossing or turning or empty feelings in the dark. There is no staring at the ceiling for hours on end. 

Instead, Emma sleeps. And she sleeps well. 

 

-

 

When Emma wakes up, she’s half-leaning against the foot of the couch, and Regina is cuddled into her and all over her like a koala. 

It makes her smile, and she brushes back a strand of dark hair from her sleeping face. She’s so beautiful, so peaceful. Asleep, she actually looks her age. Sometimes Emma forgets they’re the same age, forgets Regina’s a teenager and not some whip-smart movie star whose been to hell and back. 

Regina’s dark brows crease into a frown and she moans sleepily, pressing her head against Emma’s chest. Under the sheets, she can see her stretching. 

Emma smiles, hands carding through her short dark hair. “Morning,” She whispers. 

“No.” Regina whispers back, sharply. “Go back to sleep.”

“Regina,” Emma whispers, mouth against her hair. “I think it’s pretty late.”

“Good.” Regina buries her face in the crook of Emma’s neck. The soft warm weight of her across Emma’s body is comforting. 

Hazy light filters through the half-open blinds, dancing over the white sheets and Regina’s soft skin like slow film shutter speed. A heavy, happy feeling settles deep in her chest, and she winds her fingers again through the brunette’s silky hair. The sheets smell like apple detergent and Regina’s perfume and faintly of homemade brownies. 

Regina sits up sleepily, stretching her back and neck and groaning, and Emma watches the pull of her muscles beneath tanned skin. Eventually she pushes the white sheets off her bare legs and meets Emma’s eyes. 

“We should get up.” Her face is soft without makeup, dark eyes still a little hazy with sleep. 

“Mm,” Emma agrees reluctantly, allowing Regina to pull her up. 

Together, they go to the kitchen, where Regina poaches eggs and butters muffins and pours orange juice, while Emma sits on the marble counter passing her cutlery and humming along to the old song on the radio. They eat in their pyjamas on the kitchen floor, and it’s the best meal Emma’s ever had. 

Afterwards, Regina runs the sink to wash up. “You can use the shower if you want,” She offers. “There’s fresh towels in there.”

“That would be great, actually,” Emma allows. The shower at Shitty Foster Dad’s is iffy – at best it works in dribbles and spurts, either way too hot or way too cold. Emma’s been using dish soap as shower gel for the last three weeks. 

“Just upstairs, to the left,” Regina tells her, taking the empty plate Emma hands her. 

So Emma runs upstairs, weirdly excited, and stands under the mayor’s fancy-ass power shower for way too long, enjoying the warm fall of water and the steady pressure. There’s shower gel and shower cream all with fancy French labels and Emma uses them all just because she can, calm and happy and wondering how the fuck she ended up in the mayor’s shower. 

Afterwards she towels off and gets dressed in yesterday’s clothes, putting the borrowed pyjamas in Regina’s laundry basket. She’s just barely made it down the stairs before Regina hurries over to her, still in her pyjamas, with a look on her face that makes Emma’s stomach drop. 

Instantly, she knows something is wrong. Regina’s mouth is tight, eyes hard and worried, voice strained. “Emma?”

“Yeah?” Emma’s chest tightens with anxiety. 

“Are you ready to leave?” Regina demands. 

“Yeah, sure, why?” Emma asks. She already knows. 

“My mother just called. They’re coming home early.” 

“Oh.” Emma says, and she can’t deny the heavy sinking feeling in her gut. 

For a second she just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, hand braced against a bannister, ropy wet hair dripping onto her ratty black t-shirt. As much as she hates this house, she doesn’t want to leave. As much as Regina drives her crazy, she doesn’t want to leave her. 

Regina stares up at her with hard dark eyes, all traces of the morning’s softness gone from her face. “Can you leave, please?” She repeats.  
Emma doesn’t say anything as she grabs her frayed backpack and heads for the foyer. 

Regina stands in the doorway in her pyjamas, bare arms wrapped tight around herself, and watches her go. When Emma looks back at her from halfway down the street, she’s still there, looking. She waits until she’s out of the dollhouse neighbourhood to stoop and tie her grubby shoelace. She's crouching there in the middle of the road with her wet hair and goose prickles all over her arms and the knee that pokes through a hole in her jeans, and the taste of brownies and kisses still on her lips, and suddenly she thinks she might be about to cry.

It's stupid. She hasn't cried since she was eight and angry, not understanding why her foster mom wouldn't open the bathroom door and the grown ups wouldn't tell her anything. She's not even upset because Regina made her leave. She's upset because Regina has to stay, and the thought of her alone in that big house waiting for her mother and all that entails makes Emma's stomach turn.

Emma tries to shake it off. She stands up, breathes in and hefts her ratty backpack onto her shoulder. She needs a cigarette. God, she needs a cigarette. 

Softly, gently, it begins to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone was interested, the song playing in regina’s bedroom was cherry wine by hozier.


	5. truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m back! it’s been 84 years but here u go. i’ve edited this and changed it up a load of times and i’m still not sure it feels right but i felt like if i didn’t post it now then i would never post at all, and we do actually want to finish this story someday! big thanks to everyone for sticking with it.
> 
> y’all ready for some super ridiculously sad backstory? 
> 
> tws for mentions of death, child abuse and suicide (sort of semi graphic but not rly. also it’s fairly brief).

Monday is the longest day. 

Every time Emma walks down the hall between classes she feels like she’s on red alert – her heart races and her skin tingles and her fingers kind of itch for a cigarette as she scans crowds of kids, wondering when she’ll see her. Every class she sits in, she can’t stop twisting around to look out into the hallways and other classes, hoping for a glimpse of dark eyes and red lips and secret smiles. 

She's not sure what she's hoping for exactly. It's not like they're going to build another blanket fort and make out in the middle of the gym, or even talk about it with all Regina's idiot friends hanging around like a swarm of flies. But anything - even just a glimpse of that hard look in Regina's dark eyes that reminds Emma she's not the only one who hates everything about this dumbass school - would be enough. 

But there's nothing. All day. 

And when the final bell rings, and they’ve still not seen each other, Emma’s not really sure what to do. She doesn’t want to go home.

Shitty Foster Dad is pissed at her. It came as quite a surprise to Emma when he had a go at her for staying out all night and most of the day Sunday – it’s probably the longest string of words he’s ever said to her. Which is quite something from the guy who frequently locked her out the house, but whatever.  


Sometimes he mutters at her in his drunken stupor to shut one of the little kids up when they won’t stop crying, or mumbles something about bringing him a beer if she’s already on her way to the shithole kitchen. But most of the time, they just inhabit the same space, and try to pretend that they don’t.

Once, Emma was pretty sure he’d forgotten who she was. Drunk as a dog, half-passed out on the grotty couch after a fight with his stupid girlfriend, he sat up and frowned at her as she walked past like, _who the fuck is this dumb kid in my dump of a house, eating my off-band cheese balls for dinner?_

Safe to say, Emma’s not really sure how to deal with him being pissed at her. Her only option is avoidance, really. So she hangs out in the library after the final class bell rings, and when the library shuts, heads down to the smoking wall and sits cross-legged on the asphalt, sheltered from the patchy rain by the overhang of the roof, carrying on carving shit into one of the bricks close to the ground.

But then she needs to pee, so she ventures back into the school, and it’s kind of weird walking down the empty hallways after hours. The quiet is so thick it presses against the walls and the lockers, only interrupted by the buzz of the lights. It’s kind of creepy, actually.

Emma leaves the girls bathroom and hurries back down the halls, thinking she’ll just have to go home and shut herself in her room and hope everything’s blown over. Or maybe Shitty Stripper Girlfriend will come round and nobody will remember Emma’s even in the house, so –

Then Emma turns a corner and her heart leaps into her chest.

Fluorescent strip lights buzz overhead, their reflections glowing in the polished floor. Like most of the school at this time it’s deserted, except - halfway down the hallway, standing in her stupid cheer uniform at her locker, casting a long dark shadow, is Regina Mills.

“Hey,” The word spills from her before she can think.

Regina turns her head and for a moment, she locks eyes with her down the hall. Even at a distance, they’re dark and shining. Then she turns sharply back to her open locker, impassive face hidden by the open door.  


Emma walks silently up to the locker beside her and pretends to be fiddling with the dial for a few moments. Then she breathes in and says, under her breath, “She didn’t find out, did she?”

“No,” Regina replies quickly and quietly, not once looking at her or giving any implication they’re speaking. She stands on her tiptoes to reach something in her locker.

Emma breathes out, for the first time in days. “Good.”

Regina doesn’t reply. She just keeps sorting through her locker. Emma can’t help but sneak tiny sideways glances at her – her dark hair falls in a perfect wave against the shoulder of her red uniform shirt, and every time she stretches up on her toes Emma watches the muscles tighten in her bare olive-skinned legs. Fresh from cheer practise, in her black running shoes, Regina Mills is shorter than her. Emma has only to look down to see her dark eyelashes.

The standard high school cheerleading uniform bares a lot more skin than Regina’s usual clothes – Emma tries not to be obvious as she scans over soft arms, shapely legs, the warm strip of skin between her shirt and her skirt, that Emma traced with her thumb when they kissed. She breathes out, relieved. Everywhere, the smooth golden skin is unbroken and perfect. Today, at least, there are no sign of bruises. Not so much as a red mark. She smiles to herself. Somehow, it feels like a victory.

Then Emma looks back at the closed locker in front of her. “Smoking wall?” She asks, in a small cautious voice.

“Smoking wall.” Regina retrieves the bundle of her normal clothes into her arms and closes her locker. The small metallic clang echoes down the hall. “Let me just get changed.”

Emma nods, and tries not to watch Regina walk away down the hall, tiny skirt bouncing against the back of her thighs. Her shoes squeak against the polished floors. Even after she’s gone, she can still faintly smell her – sweat and familiar perfume. She turns and jogs back out to the smoking wall.

She can’t help but feel relieved for herself too, as she pushes out into the brisk grey air, a hint of a smile on her face. She’s been kind of worried all day that it’d be like it was after the party, or their drive that night – that Regina would try and distance herself to counteract any damage that had been done. (Clearly, they’re breaking patterns now.) The chilly air stings her cheeks but she barely notices. 

Emma leans against the smoking wall, tugging her flannel shirt tighter around herself as the rain starts to come down. First it’s a just light patter against the gutter overhead, but then it hardens, lashing the asphalt like it’s angry. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to wait long.

She looks up at the sound of the door screeching open, and Regina hurrying down the concrete steps, changed into her standard black dress, long grey coat hanging over the top. Her bag bounces on her shoulder.

Regina looks sideways at her, and the mascara is smudged slightly around her big brown eyes. Under all the makeup, her olive skin has a faint sheen of sweat from practise. Somehow though, it makes her look fresher, more natural. She holds out a hand. “Cigarette?”

“Sure, one sec,” Emma fumbles in her jeans pocket and comes up with a half-empty pack. She flips the lid and offers it to her.

“Thank you.” Regina takes out and lights up in a fluid, elegant motion. She breathes in the smoke and when she sighs it out the last of the tension melts from her shoulders. Suddenly she says, “I’m sorry.”

Emma’s brows crease into a frown. “For what?”

“For my mother.” Regina clarifies, as if it’s obvious. Distractedly, she taps the ash of her cigarette. Emma watches the grey specks drift down to the asphalt. “Kicking you out like that, that wasn’t very...” She looks over at Emma, and for once there is no trace of heaviness in her face. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Don’t be,” Emma shakes her head. She takes out a cigarette for herself and smiles gratefully when Regina holds out her lighter and clicks it on. The little orange flame dances against the rainy sky, and Emma touches the end of her cigarette to it until it lights.

“Thank you for Saturday.” Emma says, without thinking. She looks at Regina and something in her chest flutters when she sees Regina is already looking back at her.

Although a shadow of a smile tugs at the brunette’s full lips, she shakes her head. “Really, you don’t have to -”

“I had a good time,” Emma says, thinking that she wouldn’t have even thought of saying something like that a few weeks ago. She smiles down at the damp ground. Maybe, at last, all the hard edges between them are softening.

Regina is looking out across the parking lot now, big brown eyes unreadable as they watch rain pound against the hoods of cars and splash into puddles. A tiny river rushes past the kerb towards the drain. Her dark hair is a little messed up from practise, a little imperfect, and starting to curl from the damp air. It blows about her shoulders, and she tugs her big grey coat tighter around herself.

Finally, a small smile touches her lips as she brings up her cigarette for a drag. “The best,” She agrees.

“It’s my turn to surprise us now.” Emma forces herself to keep looking at the floor, mischievous smile playing over her mouth.

“What?” She can hear the confused frown in Regina’s voice.

“Tomorrow,” Emma clarifies. She looks over and meet’s Regina’s eyes, and quirks one eyebrow. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t really feel like sitting in psychology for hours listening to Mr Gold drone on about serial killers.”

Regina blinks her dark eyes at Emma with an incredulous twist to her mouth. “What are you implying, Miss Swan?”

Emma can’t help grinning. She’s never seen Regina like this before, sort of soft and teasing and easy. Not at school, at least. Not out of context. “I was walking around Sunday because, you know, _someone_ threw me out –”

“Hey!” Regina objects, but her dark eyes are twinkling and it makes Emma laugh.

“And I found a pretty nice trail and I thought it might be a little nicer with someone else.” Emma finishes lightly. “Plus Gold’s gonna kill me when he finds out I still haven’t done that essay –”

“Alright,” Regina says.

Emma turns and stares at her, the roar of the pounding rain all around them. She blinks, cigarette paused awkwardly halfway to her mouth. “Seriously?”

She doesn’t know why, but she kind of assumed the mayor's straight-A daughter would have more of an issue with bunking off school. But Regina just looks at her over her shoulder, dark hair bouncing against her coat, full lips quirked into a smirk. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh,” Emma says. _Well, what do you know_. “Cool. But, uh, you can’t dress like that,”

Regina’s perfect dark brows crease into a frown. “Like what?”

Emma nearly laughs. She gestures with her hand, cigarette leaking smoke up into the wet grey air above their heads. “Like, no tight dresses and killer heels.”

“Well that’s no fun,” Regina gives a mocking pout for a second. Then she rolls her dark eyes and takes a drag on her cigarette. “I do own jeans, you know.”

“Really?” Emma raises an eyebrow. “I’d never have guessed.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” Regina asks.

“Hey.” Emma gives her a look. “You’ve given me my share of surprises. Right now, all you need to know is that we’re going.”

For a moment Regina just watches her, not quite smiling, but not quite not either. Emma’s mouth is suddenly dry. She scuffs a duct-taped boot awkwardly against the asphalt and taps the ash off her cigarette. Anxiety and excitement buzz in her stomach. This is so not what they do – this light bantering, leaning side by side against the smoking wall as if they’re friends or something more. But maybe it could be.

Regina’s dark brown eyes lift to hers, sparkling with amusement, and she carefully raises the cigarette to her dusky pink lips. “I like you like this.”

Emma grins despite herself. Not what she was expecting. She blinks, wind blowing strands of damp blonde hair into her eyes. “Like what?”

“All confident and pleased with yourself.” The brunette takes a purposeful drag.

Emma grins and looks away for a second, smiling at the rain lashing down over the half-empty parking lot. “Well, you’re definitely off your game today.”

“Why?” Regina asks.

And Emma tries to suppress her stupid, lopsided grin and turns back to the brunette. “Because I didn’t know you liked me at all.”

Regina just rolls her eyes, but Emma can see the slightest hint of a smirk playing over the corners of her lips.

 _Bring on tomorrow_.

-

Emma practically jumps out of bed the next day (and not just because her bed is shit, and the mattress springs are broken).  


She’s grinning even as she creeps downstairs and hops that one squeaky floorboard that always wakes the whole house up. She creeps to the empty kitchen, sneaks a packet of off-brand cheese puffs out of the cupboard for breakfast, and she’s still grinning when she wriggles into her jeans and hunts for socks under her bed.  


(She changes shirt a couple of times, although she’s not really sure why. She’s nearly late because she spends too much time on her tiptoes in the bathroom, craning to look in the cracked mirror and do something with her hair before she gives up and rifles through her drawers for her favourite beanie. _God, I’m stupid_ , she thinks, grinning stupidly.)  


She and Regina agreed to meet at school so they could dump their books and stuff, then head off, so she’s not really sure what to do when she gets there. She heads down the hallway for her locker, craning for a glimpse of the parking lot out the window to see if Regina’s car is there yet. _Bad call_.  


“Oi, Swan!”  


Killian Jones’ familiar voice makes Emma groan internally. She shoves her grubby headphones into her rucksack and violently deposits it in her cluttered locker before she spins around.  


“Yeah?” Emma demands, folding her arms over her chest as she faces him.  


“Nice to see you too, love,” Killian stops in front of her, slinging his leather messenger back over his shoulder.  


She hasn’t seen him up close for a while – something she thinks she should probably be grateful for. He hasn’t changed a bit. His hair is still black with dye and wet with gel, eyes still rimmed in red in a way no amount of dark kohl can hide. (And eyeshadow. Apparently, the boy wears black eyeshadow now. Emma’s glad she got out when she did.)  


“Look, Swan, I’m sorry about all that shit before,” Killian says, one pale hand coming up to rub the dark stubble coming in on his jaw. “Those dicks at the party, they didn’t mean any harm.”  


“Right.” Emma raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. The bell rings, loud and shrill. Around them, the clusters of chattering kids lingering in the hall begin to disperse. “Did you have a point, or...?”  


“Point is, we have a date at the smoking wall for lunch,” Killian grins.  


Emma sighs and shoves past him, down the hall with the other kids. She does have a date at the smoking wall, but it’s not at lunch and it’s definitely not with him.  


“Wait, Swan –” He tugs at the worn sleeve of her ratty flannel shirt, yanking her back.  


Anger flashes in her gut, but mostly she’s just annoyed. She wants to meet Regina, and the sooner the better. Impatience squirms in her gut. But she sighs and turns back to him anyway.  


To his credit, Killian _does_ look sorry. His blue eyes, although bloodshot and distant, are kind of anxious, and he keeps picking at his black fingernails. “What else do you want from me, love? I said I’m sorry. I don’t fancy you. Not really, anyway. I know you’re gay and I wouldn’t - look, are we gonna meet for a smoke and a hit or not?”  


Emma huffs and shakes her head. Obviously today is off the table. But there are other days, and as much as she doesn’t want to hang out with him, she can’t help but think of the burritos he buys at lunch, the hot Cheetos she knows she will find in his bag. It’s petty, and it’s dumb, but she’s kind of missed eating a decent lunch.  


She doesn’t reply – she doesn’t have to.  


“Bloody hell,” Killian’s thick black eyebrow lifts slightly as he gazes bleary-eyed over his shoulder. “Would you look at that...”  


Emma frowns and peers around him to stare down the crowded hallway.  


Striding down the corridor like it’s a catwalk or a drawbridge is Regina Mills, wearing black jeans that fit her like a second skin, a tight red sweater and a black leather jacket. Instead of her normal handbag, she has a small leather backpack neatly hanging off one shoulder, and on her feet are block-heeled black boots. Not exactly practical footwear, but more practical than usual. There’s a thin gold choker around her neck and high end makeup on her stony face, but still. It’s the most casual Emma’s seen her in public.  


Emma swallows and pretends that her heart isn’t racing like crazy. She forces herself to roll her eyes. “If we’re going to be friends again, you have to stop trying to objectify women with me.”  


“Alright, alright,” Killian rolls his heavily made-up eyes. “No harm done, love.”  


But he’s not even looking at her, and Emma can hardly blame him. When the goddess known as Regina Mills walks past them without so much as a glance their way, he’s not the only one staring at her, long after she disappears into a crowd of kids. She’s going the direction of the smoking wall.  


Emma itches to run right after her, but she makes herself wait, leaning coolly against the block of lockers, as if she didn’t spend all of Saturday lying on a bed beside that girl, staring into her eyes.  


“Anyway,” Killian turns back to her and flashes what he probably imagines is a winning smile. “Friends again?”  


“I don’t think we were friends before,” Emma huffs.  


But she walks him to class anyway, and when he stops outside the door and holds out a black-nailed hand, studded with Hot Topic rings, she shakes it briefly. Then she skulks outside the classroom, making sure he’s sitting down and the teacher’s spotted him, before she turns on her heels and all but runs down the hall, back towards the smoking wall, cursing him for making her late.  


She shoves out the door and down the steps to the smoking wall, and, just as she knew she would be, Regina is standing under the overhang of the roof, waiting for her.  


Emma smiles, relief washing through her chest. “Hey,”  


“Hey,” Regina says, turning her head to look at her. Her dark hair swings against her shoulder. Somehow, even that small motion is elegant and old-blooded. She’s tapping a cigarette between her thin fingers, but it's not lit.  


“You ready to leave?” Emma asks, slightly breathless from her dash down the hall.  


“I’ve been ready to leave here all my life,” Regina deadpans. Like most of Regina’s dry jokes, it’s more horrible than funny, but it makes Emma laugh all the same.  


They trudge across the parking lot, bold as you like.  


It’s the middle of the morning, and most classes have started now. Yet here they are, clearly walking off of school grounds, holding cigarettes. If anyone sees them, they’re both dead. Shitty Foster Dad wouldn’t care, but Emma doesn’t really want to get thrown out of another school. He definitely won’t keep her if she does, and what’s the point of moving now? (She doesn’t even know what Regina’s mom would do to her if she found out.)  


“Aren’t you worried someone will see your car?” Emma says, glancing across the parking lot at the familiar black Mercedes. In the high-school lot, surrounded by beat-up Fords, it’s pretty conspicuous.  


Regina doesn’t look fazed. “Gold will cover for me.”  


“Gold?” Emma frowns for a second, until it hits her. Then her frown turns into a confused stare. “As in _Mr Gold_? Our psychology teacher, _Mr Gold_?”  


Regina nods and raises her eyebrows slightly, in that way that makes her look like an old film star. There are raindrops caught on her eyelashes. “I’d call him a family friend, but these days he hates my mother almost as much as I do. If he sees my car, he’ll know what to do. He’s done it before.” She pauses, pursing her lips slightly. “He... He’ll cover for me, okay? For us.”  


Her words are clipped and crisp, very firmly telling Emma she doesn’t want to explain herself. Emma just kind of accepts it. Once again, she reflects how much she will never know about this girl. Just when she thinks she’s unravelling the mystery, she’s given another clue.  


They settle into a companionable silence as they skirt the parking lot and climb up the grassy mud slope to the edge of the trees. Regina gives her a curious look as Emma motions with her head for her to follow.  


“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Regina asks, with a slight quirk of an eyebrow. But she has that look on her face that’s the closest she gets to smiling.  


“Honestly?” Emma flashes a grin and shrugs. “Not really. But as long as we follow the trail, I think we’ll be okay.”  


In the trees, they’re slightly sheltered from the wind and rain – it patters soothingly against the leafy canopy overhead, only a few drops breaking through to speckle Emma’s skin. The smell of it is everywhere though, earthy and damp. A wet mulch of leaves and twigs crunch underfoot. Emma heads in what she thinks is the right direction until, sure enough, they find the dirty track of the forest trail.  


“What did Killian Jones want?” Regina asks tightly. Her full upper lip curls with disgust as she says his name, as if the very taste of it in her mouth is sour. Somehow, Emma thinks she’s been waiting to ask that for a while. _I didn’t even know she noticed us_.  


“Uh, nothing really,” Emma shrugs, and puts an unlit cigarette between her lips. “He tried to apologise for what an asshole he was to me.”  


Regina’s head whips round so sharply Emma nearly jumps. Her perfect dark brows are creased into a frown. “What did he do to you?”  


“Nothing,” Emma says again, cupping her hand around her cigarette to light up. It sounds stupid to say it out loud, but the concern and anger battling in Regina’s pretty features makes her stomach flutter. “The guy’s just a dick.”  


“Indeed,” Regina agrees. Her red lips are pressed tight together, her jaw clenched slightly. Her wide dark eyes bore into Emma – she can feel her insistent stare, like a physical thing on her skin. “What did he do _specifically_?”  


“I don’t know,” Emma shrugs, dragging on her cigarette and sighing out smoke. It billows in a thin grey cloud, up into the green treetops. “He’s a jerk about women. And he tries to sell me dope, like, all the time. Him and all his asshole friends. We kind of got in a fight about it at Will Scarlett’s. They were asking me if I’d had a threesome.”  


“That’s... wildly inappropriate.” Regina flushes slightly with anger. She frowns at the ground, her black boots crunching leaves and snapping twigs underfoot. “What right does he think he has, just because –”  


“What right does Robin think he has,” Emma counters, raising an eyebrow slightly as she takes another hit of her cigarette. “Guys like that are just assholes.”  


“That’s different,” Regina insists pointedly. She holds out her hand and snatches the lit cigarette from Emma’s fingers. Then she lifts it to her own lips and takes a small drag. She hesitates a moment, cigarette lingering against her lips. “I lost my virginity last year, and Robin knows I –” She shakes her head, unconvinced. “It’s a different situation.”  


Emma shoots Regina a cautious sideways glance. Slowly, an awkward grin comes over her face. “Who said I was a virgin?”  


Regina blinks down at the ground, lips slightly parted. “Are you?”  


“That depends.” Emma shrugs. When she takes the cigarette back off the brunette, it has lipstick stains on the end. She puts it between her lips and takes a long drag. It’s still warm. “I’ve never fucked a boy.”  


“Oh.”  


If Emma didn’t know any better, she’d say the faintest hint of a blush colours Regina’s cheeks as she stares down at the forest floor.  


“So how did you find this trail?” Regina asks after a few awkward moments. She looks up at the thick green canopy overhead, pierced only by the occasional plummeting raindrop. “I used to go hiking in these woods growing up but I don’t think I’ve come across this one.”  


“I told you last night,” Emma says, blowing grey smoke up into the wet treetops. “I was wandering around for ages Sunday. My weekends are pretty much one big hike around town.”  


Regina’s dark eyes find hers. There are a few raindrops beaded in her dark hair. “It’s easier than being at home, isn’t it?”  


“Yup,” Emma breathes out. “Plus, I – I don’t know. I had a lot on my mind that day.”  


“I am sorry, Emma,” Regina says, and when Emma glances sideways at her she’s biting slightly on her full lower lip. A twig snaps loudly under her designer boots. “I had no idea she was going to come home so soon –”  


“I get it,” Emma assures her lightly. “It’s not your fault. And I didn’t... Winter’s just a weird time for me, you know?” She sighs, bringing the cigarette back up to her mouth. “Got a lot of weird memories at the minute.”  


Regina just nods, her dark eyes big and knowing. After that, they walk in silence for a while. It’s strange. They don’t talk much, actually. Even that day at the mayor’s house, half the time they were just lying side by side. They don’t need words, but sometimes, deep in the silence, Emma can’t help but feel like they’re close to something. Like they’re skirting the barriers, and if they go full force and break through who knows what might come flooding out.  


She keeps thinking about Regina’s face when she told her she wasn’t a virgin. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it like that. _Still..._ When Emma looks over at her, she can see a glimpse of black lace at the cleavage of her red sweater. She tries not to stare. It’s winter, and it’s grey and rainy half the year anyway, but Regina’s olive skin is tanned and warm and perfect. Emma remembers how soft it was when she’d touched it, brushing her thumb over Regina’s hipbone where her pyjama shirt had ridden up under the sheets.  


“We’re nearly there,” Emma says after a while, clearing her throat to shake off her own thoughts.  


“Oh,” Regina looks across at her. “I thought this was _there_.”  


Emma just smiles. “Wait and see.”  


When at last the trees around the trail grow sparser and skinnier, and then the forest opens up, she stares at Regina so she can watch her realise. The brunette frowns a second, peering down the track, before her dark eyes light up in surprise and her open mouth curls into something that’s very nearly a smile.  


“Emma!” She cries, hurrying down the last few yards of the track, to where it opens out onto the small, grey curve of beach. “You didn’t tell me!”  


Emma rolls her eyes and shoves Regina’s shoulder with her own. “That’s what makes it a surprise, dummy.”  


Most of the coastline in town is just crowded with canneries and warehouses and ugly grey pavement, and the small strip of land down to the sea is stony and unfriendly. Which is why Emma was so surprised to stumble onto this sandy little bay on a gloomy Sunday.  


Regina laughs, a light, sweet sound in the back of her throat that Emma’s been thinking about for days. She looks up at Emma, her face young and open once again.  


“Well, come on then!” She grabs her hand and Emma grins to herself as they race down the open stretch of sand together.  


Regina’s heels tear up handfuls of damp sand as she runs, and it clings to her clothes as the salt wind whips her dark hair into disarray, but she’s smiling and careless as she stops short at the shoreline. For a while, they watch the grey waves lap at the sand, tossing stones and sea glass around. It’s bitingly cold and blustery, but Emma’s chest feels suffused with warmth, like she's glowing from the inside out.  


Somehow, they end up sitting side by side a few metres back from the sea, against this big shelf of grey rock, drawing shit in the sand with a stick. Emma keeps trying to write her name before Regina scrubs it out with her foot, laughing until her mouth is dry and her throat is raw from the cold wind.  


“Stop it – hey, _stop it_ –” Emma protests, laughing as Regina leans across her to mess up her sand drawing for the thousandth time. “Stop it, you monster!”  


Regina’s got her head down in determination but Emma can see she’s laughing too, even if she doesn’t want to show it. Emma stretches her arm, drawing further and further out of the brunette's reach in the sand, and Regina's leaning across her to try and get at it, and she’s practically on top of her and Emma can kind of feel the warmth of her through all their clothes and –  


Regina snatches the stick out of her hand and flops back down beside her triumphantly. Emma reaches instinctively to grab it back but she stops when she realises how close they actually are, breathlessness from laughter turning into something else entirely.  


Emma swallows, unable to look away from those big dark eyes. Her cheeks are flushed despite the cold wind. She wishes she could stop feeling like she’s about to catch on fire every time she sees Regina off guard, wishes she could stop being so _aware_ of herself and the other girl all the time –  


“Relax,” Regina says after a while, with a sheepish smile. She digs the stick into the sand between her feet. “And you said you weren’t a virgin.”  


And Emma can’t help but laugh.  


“Regina Mills,” She says, turning to her with the salty wind blowing handfuls of blonde hair across her face. “Did you just make a joke?”  


“I’m allowed to do that.” Regina says, fighting off a smile.  


Emma smiles down at her boots, rubbing the gritty sand off her hands on her shirt.  


“Who was she?” Regina asks, and all of a sudden her voice is completely changed.  


“Huh?” Emma looks up, brows knitting in confusion.  


Regina is staring out to sea with an odd look on her face. Her dark hair blows around her face in the wind, and there’s sand all over her black jeans. She blinks, and her dark eyes are suddenly a little more distant, and a little harder too.  


“The girl.” She clarifies.  


Emma stares at her, still lost.  


Regina rolls her eyes and finally glances sideways at her. “You said you’d never fucked a boy.”  


“Oh,” Emma says, understanding. She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat, and wraps her arms loosely around her knees. The sea rolls and roils, throwing up foam and spray, and a bird circles overhead. She wonders if Regina is jealous, or just overthinking. She wonders if Regina’s got weird memories that come up at weird times too.  


“She was called Lily,” Emma says, and her voice is tight. It feels somehow wrong to talk about her to Regina. She’s sort of kept them in separate compartments in her head. _Worlds apart_. “She was with me for a while when I was on the street. She had this credit card she’d got off her dad when she left, she used to buy shitty wine. We were holing up this weird abandoned warehouse with a couple of other kids, but it was just us one night and we’d been drinking to much and I don’t know, it just happened, I guess.”  


Regina is nodding slowly, but Emma can see her mouth is tight. “I understand.”  


“It wasn’t amazing, to be honest,” Emma blurts. The back of her neck crawls with heat. Her stomach is in knots. She doesn’t know why, but she wants Regina to know that girl meant nothing, _needs_ her to know that. “I mean I thought Lily was hot and we’d made out before but it didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t like –”  


She stops herself before she can say _it wasn’t like this_.  


Emma buries the scuffed toe of her boot in the wet sand. The wind is throwing handfuls of blonde hair across her face from under her ratty old beanie. _It wasn’t like us_ , she thinks, not looking at her. _It wasn’t like you_.  


“What happened to her?” Regina asks softly, peering sideways at Emma with a strange look in her eyes. “To Lily?”  


“Don’t know,” Emma shrugs. “I got caught first. I guess she went back to her dad’s.”  


Regina nods but says nothing.  


Emma’s fingers itch for a cigarette, but she stops herself from digging in her jeans pocket. Instead, they dig in the sand, squeezing damp fistfuls and sifting them between her fingers.  


“I’m going to tell you some things now, Emma.” Regina says suddenly.  


Emma frowns across at her. Regina is sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and her hands curled tight, dark hair whipping across her face. Her dark eyes are resolute, fixed on the roiling ocean in the distance. There is a look there, etched into the lines of her face, that Emma has never seen before, ever.  


“Okay,” Emma says cautiously. She thinks this is probably going to be awful. Her cheeks are stinging from the cold. “About...?”  


“His name was Daniel,” Regina says, in a hard detached voice.  


Immediately, Emma knows who she’s talking about. The boy who owned a large black jacket, that is now folded small and hidden away in the back of Regina’s bedroom. The boy who took her virginity. The boy who is supposedly ‘beneath’ Robin Locksley. Her stomach sinks.  


“He worked at the stable. I was, uh, big into horses then. Ever since I was little, actually. I only stopped riding because –” She stops herself and takes a breath. Her dark eyes are fixed on the ocean in the distance, not really seeing it. “He was eighteen and he’d dropped out of school to work full time. He lived with his uncle, in the trailer park downtown and he had to support him but he was saving up. He wanted to go to college.” For a moment, Regina is silent. “He was the best person I’ve ever met.”  


Regina sighs. If you closed your eyes, Emma thinks, she could almost have been telling a story about something that happened to someone else, nothing to do with her at all. If you didn’t see the look in her eyes. If you didn’t see the hate and the love bleeding out of her with every breath.  
Emma looks at her, with the sea breeze throwing handfuls of blonde hair across her face. Regina’s dark eyes find hers and she feels it like a punch to the gut.  


“He was the kindest person I knew, and not just because I hadn’t met all that many before. He was soft and brave and _good_ and I loved him...” Regina breaks off. “I loved him like you don’t even know.”  


Regina stops again, and Emma reaches down through the sand and twines her fingers through hers. Their palms are cold and gritty with sand. Regina’s fingers close gently around hers and grip on like a life rope in the light rain.  


“We were going to run away together.” Regina says, eventually. Now her voice is dull and flat, like she’s gotten her emotions in check again. To the untrained eye, she has. But Emma knows her too well now. Still, the story comes in fits and starts, like blood pulsing out of an old wound. Like picking off a scab.  


“We had it all planned out. He had a car, I had my mother’s money. We were going to work and save enough to get an apartment in the city. We had it planned for later in the year but I begged him to just go one night. I made him and we did. It was after I got in a fight with my mother. It was bad. I’d been drinking. There were bottles in the back but he hadn’t touched a drop. He never drank.” Regina pauses. For a long while, the only sound is the waves hurling themselves against the shore and falling away, over and over.  


“Mother found out. Somehow, I don't know, she always finds out. She found out and she came after us. We were on the interstate when I realised. I told him to drive faster. He did. There was a jacknifed truck. We –” Regina breaks off sharply, shaking her head. Emma can’t tell if she’s crying or if it’s just the rain, light as kisses on her cheeks. “When I woke up in the hospital I had to find out from one of the nurses that he was dead because Mother wouldn’t even tell me.”  


“They put it in the paper. That the mayor’s daughter was in a car crash, drunk in the middle of the night with a high-school dropout.” Regina laughs and it’s horrible. It’s the laugh of an old woman, the final defence of something dead or dying. It is not the laugh of a teenage girl. Acid creeps into her voice, stinging. “Everyone thinks I was fucking him for attention or trying to piss off my mother but I was actually just trying... I was just -”  


Emma brushes her thumb across the other girl’s sandy palm. She feels awkward. She hasn’t comforted anyone for years, and there’s a weight in her chest like something’s pressing down on her. Or maybe the weight’s been lifted. She doesn’t know. All she knows is that things are coming to her, bits and pieces of broken sentences and hard eyes and suddenly Emma thinks the world makes sense, and so does the girl, the woman, beside her.  


The mystery hasn’t been unravelled, it’s been shattered. (She wasn’t allowed to go to a funeral, so she spends her life wearing black.)  


Suddenly, Regina twists round and looks up at her with enormous, pleading brown eyes. The sea wind lashes her dark hair around her face, as it whips the green waves into a foam against the sand. She looks real, and raw, and unrelenting – but she looks ethereal in this setting too. Like a goddess or a witch from a storybook; something powerful and purposeful.  


“You understand, don’t you?” Regina demands of her. “You _know_. I knew the first time I saw you.”  


Emma looks down for a second, burying her scuffed boots in the damp sand. She swallows hard around the lump in her throat. Then she nods. Once, twice. It takes a moment to find her voice. “I know.”  


For a few seconds neither of them speaks, and the only sound is the endless crashing of the sea breaking against the beach. Then Regina edges closer, without breaking the hold she has on her hand, and gently rests her head against Emma’s shoulder.  


For a moment, they are both tense and still. Then at the same time they remember that this is what they do now. That this is okay. Regina relaxes and nestles closer into the warmth of Emma’s body, sliding her free arm out across her stomach. Slowly, unsurely, Emma wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in tight. She can feel the warmth of her breath on her neck, even in the biting wind of the beach.  


“My foster mom killed herself,” Emma says, for lack of anything else to say.  


Regina lifts her head slightly off Emma’s shoulder and looks at her with eyes as soft and vast as the seething ocean.  


“Her name was Ingrid and she used to pick me up from school and we’d get ice cream and kick a ball around. I used to think were secretly related because she had blonde hair like me. We went to the fairground once and someone thought she was my mom and I didn’t stop smiling all night. When I moved in with her she told me right then she wanted to adopt me and we’d be a proper family.” Emma’s throat clenches around the sudden lump there. She’s never said all this out loud before. She’s never had to. She thinks that’s probably the same for Regina. “She locked herself in the bathroom one day and slit her wrists.”  


Regina’s mouth is open. She’s shaking her head, with a look on her face that Emma’s never seen before – completely knocked off her guard. “Emma...”  


“I called my social worker when the water started coming out under the door. I was really mad. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t open up. Then the police showed up and they didn’t tell me anything and I guess the unfinished adoption papers went in the trash and I went back to my group home.”  


“It’s bullshit, isn’t it.” Regina says. It’s not a question.  


“Yeah,” Emma agrees hoarsely. “Bullshit.”  


But somehow some of the pain has evaporated. Maybe just by virtue of saying it out loud, it’s been blown away by the wind off the ocean. Or maybe it’s because she’s sitting in the sand holding Regina Mills like she’s never going to let go.  


It feels as if days go by without either of them moving or speaking. Emma thinks she could quite possibly have felt months slip past and pool into years. She could have aged a decade with Regina’s head nestled into her shoulder, her warm breath on her neck, her arm wrapped around her, their gritty sandy hands gripping one another.  


Still, the odd fleck of rain spits down and speckles her pale skin or catches in Regina’s dark hair like beads. Still, the grey waves churn and crash on the grey beach. Overhead, gulls circle the grey sky, squawking and calling.  


After Emma was sure she could have let her whole life go by, Regina sits up sharply. Emma feels the gasping loss of her skin against hers. The brunette clambers to her feet and brushes the sand from her black jeans, dark hair blowing in her face. Then she grasps Emma’s hands tight and yanks her to her feet.  


“Where are we going?” Emma asks.  


Regina just smiles and pulls her after her.  


The dark-haired girl runs towards the shoreline, and Emma is all too happy to follow along. Regina races down the beach, the blocky high heels of her boots tearing up a trail of sand in her wake. She stops sharp and breathless when the waves wash over her shoes, closes her eyes and breathes in the cold salt air. Emma just watches.  


The next thing she knows they’re skipping stones, shouting and calling as each flat grey pebble bounces further than the last, and then they’re running along the shore with the sea foaming around their shoes. It soaks through Emma’s old boots quickly, and her socks are damp and salty but she doesn’t care. The wind whips blonde hair around her face and tears at her shirt but she just laughs until her throat is raw and her lungs ache. It feels right that it should hurt to laugh.  


She never once lets go of Regina’s hand. She can’t imagine ever doing so.  


They hold hands all the way back through the woods, leaving wet footprints on the gravel track. They don’t say much on the hike back to school, but they don’t need to. Their hands swing between them. Emma’s stomach bubbles like the ocean.  


When they break out of the quiet green world and into the near-empty school parking lot, Emma worries Regina might let go but she doesn’t. Instead, she clings even harder and walks beside her to the smoking wall, where it all began.  


“Thank you for today.” Regina says softly, drawing to a stop under the overhang from the roof. She turns to face Emma head on without letting go. Her brown eyes are softer now, like melting chocolate, and when they meet hers Emma feels it deep in her gut.  


Emma smiles awkwardly and rubs the back of her neck. “It’s nothing.”  


“Don’t,” Regina tells her, not looking away for a second. “Don’t say that.”  


Gently, almost hesitantly, Regina brushes a palm over Emma’s shoulder and smooths the cloth of her shirt. Her hand settles there. She’s pretty sure she can feel the contact even through all the layers of clothes. Her heart pounds as the rain slows down, like she’s sapping its energy and its passion.  


Regina leans into her, and in her heeled boots they’re pretty much the same height. She’s so close Emma can smell the sweat of her skin and the salt in her hair under her expensive perfume. She can see every one of her dark eyelashes, and the makeup breaking up on her eyelids. The brunette looks up at her and those dark eyes bore into hers and seem to burn right through her.  


Regina leans into her, and smiles softly, achingly. “ _Thank you, Emma_.” She whispers, and for a second her eyes close and a tiny crease appears between her brows.  


Emma’s numbed fingers come up of their own accord, and brush back a windswept dark curl from Regina’s face. She can’t bring herself to move her hand away. It curls against Regina’s cheek, savouring the warmth.  


And then Regina tilts her head up and pressed her lips gently and firmly up against hers and something in Emma’s chest comes unhinged. She presses back, slow and testing, and her hand comes to rest on the small of Regina’s back.  


Then Regina’s lips open under hers. Then Emma’s stomach churns at the warmth and the sweet familiar taste of her, and her eyes are closed and she can feel her pulse against her cheek, and the smell and the feel of Regina is all around her, and when her back hit the crumbly bricks of the smoking wall she thinks this, _this_ is how it is supposed to feel.  


She can feel Regina’s shallow breath between kisses. The warmth inside takes over and Emma’s arm wraps around her waist, pulling her tight against her even though she can’t get any closer. She lifts a hand to Regina’s cheek, just to feel the softness of her skin. Regina’s hands close into fists, climbing up Emma’s jacket, pressing herself even closer.  


Regina whimpers when they break apart for breath. Their noses bump. Emma can feel her breath on her lips. For a second, Regina’s dark eyes open and bore into hers, and then she leans up and kisses her again, short and quick and hard.  


When she pulls back, Emma can see her chest rising and falling with her ragged breath. “Thank you,” Regina says again, and her voice is low and unsteady. It sends sparks down Emma’s spine. For a second, she still clings on to Emma’s jacket.  


Then she lets go and turns away and hurries across the parking lot in the rain. Emma watches her unlock the Merc and climb into the front seat of her car. For a moment, before she closes the door, her dark eyes meet Emma’s across the rainy lot. For a moment, they almost share a smile.  


Emma leans against the smoking wall and watches her drive away, for once not craving a cigarette.


End file.
